


The prince who fell in love with a Witcher

by A_fighter_like_Eowyn



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angry Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Romance, Angst with a Happy Ending, Best Friends, Betrayal, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Breaking Up & Making Up, Brotherly Love, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Comfort/Angst, Confusion, Crying, Crying Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Crying Jaskier | Dandelion, Declarations Of Love, Developing Friendships, Dorks in Love, Emotional, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Roller Coaster, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eventual Fluff, Falling In Love, First Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Forehead Kisses, Foreplay, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gentle Kissing, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Cares About Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Takes Care of Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Talks About Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia and Jaskier | Dandelion Are Soulmates, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, Good Friend Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Heartbreak, Heartbreaking, Heartbroken Jaskier | Dandelion, Heavy Angst, Hurt, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Braids Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia's Hair, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Takes Care of Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Kissing, Loss, Loss of Faith, Loss of Trust, Love, Love Confessions, Love Triangles, Love/Hate, M/M, Making Love, Making Out, Male Friendship, Men Crying, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, One-Sided Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Pain, Partner Betrayal, Past Child Abuse, Pining, Pining Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pining Jaskier | Dandelion, Post-Loss, Pre-Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Reconciliation, Regret, Reunions, Romantic Fluff, Romantic Friendship, Separations, Sobbing, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Suspicions, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, True Love, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:40:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25429339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_fighter_like_Eowyn/pseuds/A_fighter_like_Eowyn
Summary: This fic assumes that the fanatics did *not* attack Kaer Morhen, meaning that there are still plenty of Witchers out there in the Continent.It was the year when tension and skirmishes between Witchers and humans began. Certain kingdoms joined hands in actively hunting down Witchers, deeming them monsters inimical to humans. What if Julian Alfred Pankratz is the prince of one such kingdom? What if he escapes his life as an abused prince by fleeing his kingdom, in order to fulfill his wanderlust under the guise of Jaskier the Bard? What if he chances upon a certain Witcher named Geralt of Rivia and decides to travel the Continent with him, much to the Witcher's displeasure?What if he falls in love with Geralt? Will his feelings be reciprocated? And what if, in the meantime, Geralt finds out who the bard really is? Hope you lovelies absolutely LOVE angst, because that's what this fanfiction is going to bombard y'all with !
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Reader, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 42
Kudos: 182
Collections: The Witcher(Geralt/Jaskier)





	1. An unwanted, unloved prince sets out to explore the world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An abused, hated, unwanted, undesired prince - a weakling in his family's eyes - is about to be forced into a marriage that he is pretty damn sure would be equally, if not more, abusive. And he could see no way of escape. Until, that is, one day, he does see an opening and takes his chance. To step out and see the world. To decide how to live his life, instead of having it decided for him.
> 
> Little does he know that life means to spring him a surprise - the company of a Witcher. Geralt of Rivia. 
> 
> And so, the adventure begins!
> 
> PLEASE PLEASE REVIEW !!!

The city of Aldersberg was erupting in celebrations.

The prince of this small but significantly powerful kingdom in the heart of Aedirn, Julian Alfred Pankratz, was going to be handfasted to the prince Azazor of the neighbouring kingdom of Eisenlaan in the week to come. The marriage would follow shortly after, meant to cement the friendship between the two states, leading to a combined might that would prove formidable in the face of all political challenges to come. 

Both Aldersberg and Eisenlaan were headed by royal families that practiced matriarchy, and Julian's older sister, Tanya, was to ascend the throne soon, her coronation to follow only days after Julian's handfasting ceremony was over. That was another reason why the kingdom was essentially drowning in festivities, with the nobles indulging in gluttony, rampant debauchery and drinking themselves into oblivion, and the commoners anticipating with dread the days ahead when the costs borne by the royal family for funding all the decadence would be extorted from them by levying additional taxes.

Julian hated how the common people were treated by his family. And he hated the aristocrats that fawned to his parents and sister, and condoned the oppression meted out to the commoners by the royals.

But then Julian had always been an aberration.

Ever since his birth, Julian had been a sickly, scrawny child, gaining weight slowly, having an appetite smaller than his sister's when she had been his age, a disappointment to his weapons trainer thanks to the utter absence of any athletic quality whatsoever. A prince who had big doe-like cornflower-blue eyes that always seemed dreamy, always eager to get lost in the pages of a book or tome, always seeking trees and flowers and birds and bees to gawk at, always ready to crinkle into an affectionate, shy smile instead of appearing stern and imperious. A prince who had no inclination towards learning the art of diplomacy and warfare, the strategies of war, the etiquette of the court, the devious ways of politics by which royalty could dupe the common people, brainwash them, suppress any rebellious uprising, bleed them dry when necessary. 

A prince who loved books on history and mythology, astronomy and geography, ancient runes and literature. A prince whose heart danced with joy at the prospect of learning to play musical instruments, learning to sing, learning to dance a jig.

A prince who even appeared weak - his body lacking the musculature that would be coveted among the nobility, his face child-like and devoid of hard edges and sharp angles, his expression soft and sweet and inviting instead of disdainful, supercilious, aloof, and when necessary, harsh or even cruel.

Tanya absolutely despised her little brother. No wonder there, for she had learned it from her parents. She had learned how to smack him on his head hard enough to draw tears, shove him against a wall, slam a door on his face, ridicule him cruelly in front of her friends.

Julian's mother never ever tried to hide how disgusted she felt having given birth to a son as unworthy as him. She avoided him as much as possible, even when he lay sick in a fevered swoon in his dingy chambers at a remote and seldom visited, seldom-tended-to corner of the palace.

But it was Julian's father who scared him the most.

Although it was Queen Nenya who held the reins of Aldersberg, King Pavlov, her consort, took over much of the administration, and among his many duties was teaching Julian how to be 'a man'.

As far back as Julian's memories could reach, he had had terror attacks and nervous breakdowns thinking of his father's nightly visits, once every few weeks.

The palace would be shrouded in sleep when Pavlov made his way to his son's chambers. The door would be quietly opened, and he would slip through, reaching his son's frail body fitfully sleeping on the cot at one corner. Most of the time, the boy didn't even need tying down - he would be too exhausted to put up even the semblance of a struggle. A whip would come out crackling, to fall relentlessly on the pale back riddled with scars from previous beatings. And as Julian would cry out in pain, his voice muffled by the double-layered stone walls of his chambers and barely a squeak heard from the outside, Pavlov would whisper in his ears what an effeminate voice he had, and how susceptible he was to pain, and how real men never cried - they faced pain through gritted teeth and clenched jaws...

There were only two people in the world who loved Julian. Who kept him sane. Kept him from falling off the precipice his frayed mind and battered body always hung from, with care and affection and support.

One was his wet nurse, Jessa, who had voluntarily taken on the role of his personal attendant ever since he had reached adolescence. The other was his tutor, Master Baylor - a stout old man with wispy white beard that reached down to his rotund middle, a wrinkled face that never failed to appear kind and calm and wise - who instructed Julian in not only all his favourite subjects from the sciences and the arts, but also in music, and who regarded him as his own son.

But while Jessa and Master Baylor did their best to shield Julian from the torture inflicted upon him by his own family and sometimes particularly bold members of other aristocratic families at the court, and their love acted as a balm over his wounds, they could hardly protect him from the bleak future that currently loomed ahead of the poor prince.

Julian was terrified. Frozen with fear. His back against the wall, no escape in sight. No means of wriggling his way out of the marriage he was being forced into.

The worst part of it was that, Julian knew that Azazor was going to be just a younger, more handsome, and outwardly more charming version of his own father. He had known Azazor from his childhood days, when the prince had come to spend a few summers in Aldersberg. A brute, an arrogant arsehole, a womanizer, a pampered rascal who spit on the poor, made the lives of the common folk in his kingdom hell, made sure that every comely daughter of every peasant in his kingdom paid at least one visit to his bedchamber, reveled in the horrific torments he inflicted upon helpless animals and birds. 

And now, in a few days' time, Julian would be at the mercy of this monster.

He shuddered to think of the dark days that awaited him. He was shackled, totally trapped. And all he could do was sob throughout his waking hours, and sob in his nightmares, confined in his dark, dank chambers.

He had given up all hope now. He knew nobody would listen. Nobody would care. His own family would bid him good riddance soon, and they were currently on a spree of merrymaking because of that.

It therefore came as an utter shock to him when, on the new-moon night five days before his handfasting ceremony, a key turned in the lock of his door (and his sleepless mind became distraught with fear at the possibility of a visit from his father) only to reveal Master Baylor, a small stub of candle in his palm, the other hand shielding the light from any guard who might be patrolling the corridors.

Quickly but soundlessly shutting the door behind him, the tutor crossed over to where Julian sat trembling in his bed, eyes wide with fear and now astonishment, and set the candle down on the rickety bedside table.

"There's not a moment to lose, Your Highness. You must leave."

"Wh-what?"

"This is the only chance you will get. The night is dark enough that you will have a fair chance of slipping past the guards. Take this satchel", he produced a large cloth bag from within the folds of his cloak, "Pack some clothes, and stuff you deem absolutely necessary for the days ahead. Jessa will be bringing some food to sustain you on the road for a couple of days. Now hurry, get off the bed!"

"But, where will I go, Master Baylor? I have no one else in this world!"

The old man sat down next to the terrified young prince, and cupped his pasty face gently in his palms.

"Julian, you are a very bright child, you know that? The brightest I have ever taught in all my life. I have taught you so much in all these years, and you have received that knowledge and made it a part of who you are so beautifully. All these years I have prepared you. Now, the time to test it all has come. The time for you to stand on your own two feet. Seek out your own identity. Cast away the identity you were born with, the image of yourself you were forced to accept by your family. The time has come for you to step out into the world, see it with your own two, beautiful eyes. Learn as much as you can, out there."

The prince's eyes shone with both unshed tears and the tendrils of anticipation, of excitement that came alive and coiled through his entire body with every word his tutor spoke.

"You really believe I can do that? I can survive out there? Make a living? Make a name for myself?"

"I don't just believe it, Julian, I _know_ it! You are a wise, learned young man now, and one with an impossibly kind heart. You are equipped with so much knowledge - history, geography, literature, runes, and you are armed with music too! You will be tested, of course, and the path ahead will not be easy. It will be fraught with challenges, trials and tribulations, but aren't those exactly what my brave, brave child wants to face? Doesn't my child want to fulfill his wanderlust, surmount all the hurdles that life throws at him, carve his own path - his own destiny - through life, rather than have his cruel family decide his fate?"

Julian shakily squeezed the old man's hands still cradling his face. Then, brushing away his tears, he jumped off the bed and started rooting through his wardrobe to find clothes that seemed best suited for travel.

A very soft knock sounded on the door, and a moment later, Jessa let herself in, bringing several loaves of bread, wheels of hard cheese, strips of dried meat and dried persimmons and apricots. 

In a few more minutes, the prince's satchel was bulging with clothes and food and several books he absolutely refused to part with, his notebook and several quills and an ink bottle, and slung over his shoulder was his precious lute. The last surviving one, purchased a few months back for him by Master Baylor, and not yet faced with the same fate the previous ones had - being dashed to pieces against the stone wall in a fit of rage by his father.

"Alright, now", Master Baylor strode forward to clasp the young man by his shoulders, "Remember what Jessa and I have always taught you, all these years. That you are supposed to believe only what _we_ have told you, not anyone else, so far, as to who you are. And who are you?"

Julian couldn't help a watery smile. Then he said, "I am a brave, kind, honest, loving, beautiful, and above all, _worthy_ young man, who will let neither life nor anyone else browbeat him into defeats, into surrendering, into giving up. And I will keep growing, keep moving forward, keep nurturing hope in my heart, keep fighting, _no matter what_."

"Truer words haven't been spoken, my Prince", Jessa said, her eyes tearful, as she came forward to pull her beloved young prince into a warm embrace.

"Jessa, Master Baylor, this is _not_ goodbye. I _will_ see you two again. That is a promise."

"Just make sure you live, Your Highness. Live to the fullest, and see and do all that your heart yearns for, in this lifetime."

*******************************************************************  
A shadow, barely seen in the inky darkness of the new-moon night, flit across the colonnades of the royal premises, making it outside through one of the seldom used, only slightly ajar portcullises in the palace ramparts. It took off at an incredible speed despite weakness and soreness in its limbs, bruises battering its entire body, and before the rosy blush of dawn could paint the eastern sky in the faintest streaks of red and orange and pink, it sneaked through the outermost walls of Aldersberg and vanished into the night.

*******************************************************************

When Geralt of Rivia - the fearsome, dour-handed and dour-faced, white-haired, golden-eyed Witcher who had a few years back won the reputation of being the Butcher of Blaviken - had walked into the relatively less crowded tavern in a small village of Lower Posada, it was to drink alone, and brood. 

When he left, though, he had a follower in tow. A certain cornflower-blue-eyed, pretty-faced, annoyingly cheerful and loquacious bard who called himself Jaskier.

*********************************************************************

If Geralt wasn't entirely sure how on earth he had let himself be talked into accepting a companion as maddening as Jaskier, then Julian, who now called himself Jaskier the Bard, was equally unsure, deep down, why he had latched himself onto this brooding, hulking, reticent, somewhat temperamental and definitely scary stranger.

Granted, he was fascinated by all the tales and rumours the Continent was rife with about Witchers, some proclaiming that the mutating procedures their bodies were subjected to actually made them monsters themselves, some declaring them as heroes who protected humans from the claws and clutches of monsters lurking in the dark. And his curiosity had peaked over the last few weeks.

But it was one thing to idly speculate, another to self-appoint oneself as an actual Witcher's travel companion and aide (though, to be honest, Jaskier was not sure how on earth he was supposed to aid in the business of monster-slaying).

Yet, when his cornflower-blue irises had alighted upon this (rather handsome and darkly attractive, if he was being honest with himself) stranger, and had been held captive by the amber-gold ones of the Witcher, something had stirred deep inside his heart.

Some hushed voice at the back of his mind had whispered, "He is your destiny."

He had tried to shake off the stupid, nonsensical voice, when another had perked up and said, "What's the harm in giving this a chance? You want to travel and see the world, and Witchers travel everywhere. You could just trail along."

When he had still felt torn, the voice had nudged him on some more, "Remember what Master Baylor said? See and do all the things your heart desires? Well, don't you feel how your heart is being drawn to this stranger?"

He hadn't been able to argue with that.

Not even when he had casually thrown the words "Butcher of Blaviken" at Geralt, not anticipating the effect they would have on the Witcher, and the bigger man had turned around to punch him in the gut, knocking all air out of his lungs, had his heart relented.

Instead, it had twisted in guilt and remorse for having hurt the Witcher (Jaskier had an uncanny knack of being able to read emotions carefully masked under annoyed frowns and dismissive grunts and hurled profanities meant to sting), and he had felt all the more the urge to stay close to the white-haired hero (yes, he had already decided that this one was a hero and not a villain as some village idiots claimed), to take care of him, to heal his wounded heart with love.

And thus began the long journey of Jaskier the Bard all across the continent, traipsing like a (he won't admit it yet) lovesick puppy behind the surly, cantankerous Witcher. Little did either of them know how this would mark the beginning of a new, and perhaps the most important, chapter in both of their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to let you all know that some aspects of this story have been inspired by movies / stories I have watched / read before, and I am so grateful to those for all the motivation. The idea of Julian running away from the confines imposed upon him by his royal family and being happy on the road as a simple, unassuming bard comes from an amazing, amazing (and very strongly recommended) 2014 Hindi movie named Highway. The idea of Julian's tutor Master Baylor helping the prince escape comes from Prince Caspian's tutor Doctor Cornelius' character. 
> 
> Finally, as always, PLEASE PLEASE REVIEW!


	2. The ice starts to break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2nd Chapter up! So, this is the part where Jaskier slowly, very slowly starts to crack the wall of ice around Geralt's heart. They are far from being in love, mind you - even though some sneaky voices in their own minds sometimes wonder whether this is what love feels like. Even Jaskier does not yet think he is in love with Geralt, let alone the Witcher - all Jaskier knows is that he cares for the man, a LOT, and we see how Geralt too, very slowly, very hesitatingly, starts to care for his bard. This chapter I intentionally kept short since I do not wish to tire anyone out. 
> 
> There is one specific incident in here. And more specific incidents, with specific descriptions of the bard and the Witcher's growing intimacy, are to follow in the coming chapters. So please, hang in there and keep reading and reviewing!
> 
> PLEASE PLEASE REVIEW - KUDOS AND COMMENTS GO A LOOOOONG WAY IN ENCOURAGING US AUTHORS :-)

Days lengthened into weeks, weeks into months, and still the bard resolutely stuck to the Witcher.

Geralt battered him with verbal abuse, spurned him with snide, even hurtful, remarks about all the songs he composed, refused to speak to him for days on end, made him walk mile after mile each day without once offering a ride on Roach. Geralt tried to snub him by threatening to leave him out in the cold when they had to camp outdoors, ignoring the sound of the bard's teeth chattering, making him sleep on the hard stone floor of the inn when their only option was to rent a room with a single bed. He tried to deny the bard a portion from the day's hunt when they were camping far from any inn or village, though his heart would ultimately clench in remorse and he would relent. He tried to leave, every single morning, without his bard - stealing out of the inn or rolling up his bedroll and breaking camp in utter silence.

Little did he know of Jaskier's past. Little did he know that Julian had faced far, far worse, and these barely scratched the surface of what the man had known of cruelty and brutality.

Besides, somehow, the bard knew deep down that the Witcher wasn't cruel. In fact, he was anything but. And the more time they spent together, the more the bard came to realize that Geralt of Rivia was not only _not_ a butcher, but someone who deep down was immensely, unbelievably compassionate, who went out of his way to help people with no promise of coin whatsoever and then vehemently denied having ever done such a deed.

Jaskier would smile at his Witcher, and inwardly chuckle and say, "Bring it on, Geralt. Your attempts to lose me, to make me hate you, against my willingness to care for you, to adore you as a hero."

He would play and sing in the tavern or dining hall of whichever inn they stayed at, earning both coin and smiles, and with the former, he bought them hearty, rustic fare for dinner and a room to spend the night in security and restfulness. And with the songs and ballads he wrote exalting his Witcher, he slowly but surely started erasing the dark trail of ill reputation that Geralt had been leaving in his wake thanks to the ignorance of commoners regarding Witchers and his own unfortunate actions in Blaviken. Slowly but surely, Jaskier's songs spread far and wide, lauding the Witcher's heroic feats of slaying monsters, making them both welcome in villages and towns where previously the Witcher might have been pelted with stones.

And as time went on, Geralt found himself directing less jibes and jeers at Jaskier, less insults and profanities, and while he didn't exactly open up, his terse responses became milder and a little more articulate and explanatory. The grunts gradually diminished, to be replaced by actual, even polite, verbal answers. The threats of leaving the bard to freeze outside their tent changed to implied invitations to come inside the tent and make himself comfortable, and more often than not, on wintry nights, Jaskier would wake to find Geralt sleeping on his bedroll in nothing but his shirt and trousers, whereas he himself would be swathed in both his own and his Witcher's warm blankets. 

When inns could only offer single-bed rooms, Geralt would wordlessly scoot to one side of the bed, making space for his companion as much as possible, and the next morning would find the two of them curled into each other, arms and legs swung over each other, blissfully asleep. Sometimes, when the single bed seemed too narrow, Geralt would haul up his bedroll and lay it out on the floor, leaving the bed to the younger man, and when Jaskier protested, he would send his bard what Jaskier knew was a mock glare, and mutter, "Go to sleep, bard". 

Gradually, Jaskier became the one who got to take the first bite of whatever animal Geralt succeeded in hunting during the day and roasted on a spit in the evening. Now, when the waitress at an inn served them dinner, Geralt would insist, in wordless gestures, that Jaskier take his share of the steak or the roasted chicken or baked fish before he took his.

And now, every single morning, Geralt woke up wondering whether Jaskier would still wish to come with him, whether they would have another day together, whether he would find the bard already up and waiting for him by the stable door with an armful of bread-rolls and cheese wedges and some fresh fruits obtained from the inn's kitchen to share with his Witcher for breakfast. Whether he would find his bard brewing tea and humming under his breath, all bright eyed and bushy tailed, waiting for Geralt to wake up before they broke tent and set off on the Path again.

****************************************************************

Geralt didn't know what had gotten into him. He couldn't, and to a huge extent wouldn't, ponder the changes he knew were coming over him. 

_Vesemir would think me soft. Eskel and Lambert would mock me for becoming so weak, letting the stupid bard grow on me._

But every time he decided to go back to where they had begun, to despise and deride the bard, to show him how much he was _not_ needed by the Witcher, Jaskier would just suffuse him with that inexplicable, maddening, infuriating glow of kindness, with that smile that never wavered, with those words and actions that declared loud and clear _"I care for you"_ , with those cornflower-blue eyes that were always open, honest, vulnerable and shining with love for his Witcher.

_Love._

No. There was absolutely no fucking way Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, would fall for a stupid, prattling, good-for-nothing bard. _Ever_.

****************************************************************

As for Jaskier, well, he was no less confused by what his heart felt.

Julian had been abused all his life, finding solace in only Jessa and Master Baylor. When he had set out from the palace, he had chanted "I am worthy, I am lovable" like a frigging mantra. When Geralt had hurled the first ever expletive in his face, a part of his mind had urged him to leave. Because he deserved better. Better than this irascible, unseemly bastard who, no matter how much of a hero he was professionally, had seemed to possess no soft spot and no respect whatsoever when it came to the humans around him.

And then, another, much deeper and far more perceptive part of his mind had spoken up. Had pointed out the telltale signs that revealed the hurt, the suppressed pain, the longstanding dejection from never being understood and never being listened to, perhaps even a long-bottled-up sense of betrayal, underneath all that steely, rough, intimidating, indecorous veneer...

_...that pained frown on that noble forehead that got disguised as irritated annoyance when someone threw "mutant" or "monster" or "butcher" at him ..._

_...the way the skin around his eyes would tighten when some innkeeper spat on his face, telling him to "fuck off" as there was no room for a "freak" like him, and those beautiful lips would pull slightly downward for just a few seconds ..._

_...the way Jaskier would sometimes find those entrancing golden orbs, on the few occasions Geralt deigned to join the crowd listening to the bard sing and play, momentarily shine with mirth before becoming hooded in stony indifference again ..._

_...the way Geralt would look like he had something on the edge of his lips when Jaskier would ask him how he liked his performance, and he would swallow it at the last moment, looking both defiant and painfully torn at the same time, and then just settle for a non-committal "hmmm"..._

And if Jaskier - if Julian - knew one thing deep down, it was that he would never want another person, especially someone like Geralt, to be in so much pain from being misunderstood, from being an outcast. Because Julian knew what being ostracized, being singled out and derided, tortured, abused, humiliated felt like. 

_No, he won't let Geralt be subjected to that same pain, same suffering._

_No matter how much the Witcher tried to scare him off or tried to make Jaskier hate him._

_No matter how much time, and how much effort, it needed for the bard to coax the Witcher open ... slowly, painstakingly._

Because somehow, Jaskier knew it would be worth it. How or why, his heart could not explain. But he was sworn to listen to the stupid organ, so he just went with the flow.

_And if a voice inside his mind would sometimes wonder, "Hmmm, is this love?", well - he just pretended to not listen._

_Because there was no way Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, would fall for a simple, however talented and however dedicated, bard like himself._

********************************************************************

"Fuck off, bard!"

The irate answer was spat out at Jaskier by Geralt who barely glanced his way, while striding forward doggedly through the murky gloom of the the dark, sinister-looking forest, with its blackened, looming trees and rotting foliage and reeking, bubbling mud and shifting quagmires dotting the forest floor.

"Geralt, I'm serious, mate! This place looks dangerous!", the bard spoke with urgency in his voice, keeping it hushed all the same.

He was trying his best to keep up with the Witcher while shooting terrified glances all around him, in an attempt to make sure he didn't become the unwary prey to some assault. The monster - or monsters, if the terror-stricken villagers and townspeople close by were to be believed - were likely to be lurking anywhere at all in this grim landscape. And Jaskier knew that he, with his newly purchased dagger clutched in front with shaking hands, would be easy prey.

The peculiar thing was that, every time they set out for a hunt such as this one - every damn time - his heart would twist in fear and concern, not for himself, but for Geralt.

It was utterly ridiculous! The Witcher was one of the deadliest, most ruthlessly skilled among the members of his guild, and as far as Jaskier had been able to tell, his body had a miraculous ability of healing itself from rather grievous injuries and venomous bites from monsters. Still, the bard worried constantly. 

And that was why, no matter how hard Geralt tried to shake him off, especially trying to dissuade Jaskier from accompanying him on hunts with blunt, hurtful remarks and unabashed demands to be left alone, the bard did not relent.

"These drowned deads - they hunt in teams, don't they? That means there could be several of them trying to murder you. You could do with someone distracting them, Geralt."

The White Wolf did not even reward that remark of Jaskier's with a grunt.

Instead, Jaskier saw, his eyes had become alert, his nose kept sniffing the air, his gait had become even more stealthy, his feet padding over the ground soundlessly, in an increasingly swift sprint that had all the grace of a charging leopard.

And with a shriek that seemed close to making the bard's eardrums rupture, the first of the drowned deads was upon them.

The hideous, grotesque things crept out of the bog in front of them, limbs shuffling but possessing enough strength to tear sinews and muscles, break bones asunder. Their deathly pale, wax-like faces leered in cruel smiles, revealing extremely sharp teeth. They weren't super fast, but that was the only faint ray of hope that Jaskier could see.

And with eyes wide as saucers, the bard now stood witness to exactly how capable, how agile, how nimble, and how dizzyingly fast the White Wolf of Rivia could be.

He moved from one stance to another before Jaskier could blink, never missing a step, never faltering, all the while slashing and parrying and whirling his silver broadsword around in gleaming arcs. The creatures were swarming him, yet they could barely reach him before they lost their hands and feet and necks to blindingly fast ripostes.

The bard stared mesmerized at his Witcher, a little distance away from where the fight was taking place, dagger still clutched close to his body, transfixed to where he stood, until he spotted them...

Two particularly gruesome and vile looking drowned dead, creeping up behind Geralt, crawling with not the slightest bit of noise.

And Geralt was, as far as Jaskier could tell, completely unaware of them.

The Witcher was too busy hacking at, or twisting the arms and heads off, the drowned dead that were in front of him, on either side of him, on top of him. The man had his hands completely full, with the malevolent foes not giving him a moment to breathe, a moment to take stock of his surroundings.

And distantly, the rational part of Jaskier's mind had registered with shock the torrent of emotions that had engulfed the bard.

_Sheer panic._

_Crippling fear for the safety of the Witcher._

_Pride for his valiant friend._

_Fierce protectiveness._

And of these, it was the protectiveness that drowned out the rest in its preponderance. 

Jaskier the Bard rushed forward, completely heedless of his own predicament - a mere human with no fighting skills whatsoever - dagger raised and poised to kill in his no-longer-shaking hands. The two drowned dead hadn't even noticed the puny, weakling human until now, and not until it was too late.

Jaskier let out a battle cry and plunged the dagger deep into the shriveled, sickly pale, sinewy body of the drowned dead closer to him. 

_"No you won't hurt him! Don't you fucking dare!"_

Viscous, black blood oozed out of the deep wound on the drowned dead's back as it lay writhing in the throes of death, and a horrified Jaskier looked down at his handiwork.

But before the bard could so much as gag at the sight of blood, cold, clammy, inhumanly powerful hands were upon him - one constricting his waist like the coils of a python tightening around its prey, the other in a vice-like grip around his throat - claws digging into his soft flesh. Fear, revulsion and pain - pain like fire in his lungs that were unable to draw breath and pain in his abdomen - these were the last things that Jaskier's frantic, slowly fogging mind felt.

And the last thing his increasingly blurry vision caught was the outline of a man - tall, dark, brawny and powerful like a forgotten god of ancient times, his flowing white hair whipping around him, his silver sword swishing and whirling in his hands, cutting through bones and muscles of the shrieking, squealing monsters like a scythe rippling through a field of wheat, drawing closer and closer to Jaskier...

***********************************************************

When Jaskier came around, it was with the sensation of mind-numbing pain rushing back into his still disoriented brain. He whimpered, and a strong arm immediately tightened around his chest.

"Jaskier, hold still. You are hurt."

He knew that gruff voice, sounding somewhere above him. And he realized that it was the owner of that voice to whom he was pinned by that arm encircling him, his back flush against the now no longer armoured chest, while they sat on top of Roach.

Strange! Geralt had made it explicitly clear that Jaskier was never to touch his mare.

And Roach had been tethered quite far from the spot where they had encountered the drowned dead. How had Jaskier made it back to Roach in the first place?

_Had Geralt carried him all the way?_

_Not to mention that Geralt had just addressed him by his name (sure, his made-up name), instead of the usual "Damn it, bard!" or "Fuck off, bard!"..._

Jaskier felt rather confused. And right now, his brain was simply refusing to focus on unraveling these puzzles. Instead, he tried to focus on his injuries.

His throat muscles felt raw and chafed, probably from the death-grip of the drowned dead. Thankfully, his neck and spine were intact, as far as he could tell. His body, waist down, felt as if on fire, and he realized that there were deep gouges in his hips and belly, bleeding profusely despite the bandages wrapped around them, caused by the sharp, crooked claws of the drowned dead. 

_Wait._

_Geralt had carried him all the way to Roach..._

_...then patched his wounds up?_

_Geralt??_

Who else could it be, Jaskier thought, slightly flabbergasted. He was jolted from his pain-induced haze by Geralt's voice again.

"Told you not to come with me. Stupid, stupid human ... got yourself hurt! If something had happened..."

_What was that?_

_Was that concern?_

_Fear for the bard's safety?_

_Was that Geralt **caring**?_

Even in his semi-conscious state, Jaskier felt warmth bloom in his heart. He knew he won't be able to work up a coherent answer in his current state, so all he did was slowly reach up and feebly squeeze the arm that held him secure to his Witcher's broad chest.

*********************************************************

That evening, Geralt forbade his bard, in a tone that brooked absolutely no argument whatsoever, from accompanying him, from then onward, to the precise spot where the Witcher was to fight and slay monsters. And of course, Jaskier hadn't been the least bit surprised at this new rule decreed by his Witcher.

What surprised him, however, was the way Geralt chided - _chided_ \- Jaskier.

Angry, clipped replies? Yes. Growls and snarls, asking Jaskier to leave him alone? Sure. Scoffs, scornful jibes and annoyed, impatient grunts? Absolutely. 

But _chiding_? _Reproachful admonishment_?

_All the while looking that hurt?_

Jaskier didn't know quite what to make of it. 

Nor did he know why his heart seemed to melt at the sight of the Witcher that agitated, his gold eyes that redolent with pain, his forehead that creased in worry, at the prospect of Jaskier sustaining further injuries in future brawls with monsters.

"You can't even hold a sword, damn it! You would be totally defenseless..."

"But Geralt, may be I can distract the monsters, like I did today? Giving you a window of opportunity..."

"And an opportunity to get killed and rid me of your company, bard?"

Jaskier tried not to discern the emotions that were mingled with the low snarl in which the glowering Witcher spoke that last line.

That night, Geralt brought dinner upstairs, refusing to let his injured bard climb down and aggravate the wounds further. They ate silently, and Jaskier pretended not to notice how the Witcher's platter contained no wedge of the soft, creamy cheese these parts of the Continent were well-known for, while his own contained two.

After dinner, Geralt quietly sat down on Jaskier's cot and started undoing the now soaked bandages, rubbing ointments made of medicinal plants the bard had a sneaking suspicion the Witcher had gone into much trouble to retrieve from the wild while Jaskier slept comfortably in their room that afternoon. He then replaced the old bandages with clean, fresh ones, his touches always careful, gentle. 

As his fingers lightly brushed over the skin on Jaskier's belly and hips, the bard felt a strange tingling at the pit of his stomach. His eyes fluttered a bit and his breath hitched a few times, all studiously ignored by the Witcher. And the bard was not sure why his body seemed to ache for more of those feather-light touches.

When it was time to sleep, Geralt wordlessly pushed his bed until it aligned with Jaskier's, leaving no gap in between. He lay down next to Jaskier, flung his own blanket on top of the bard's own, and even grunted a goodnight.

And the following morning, Jaskier woke to the secure feeling of a strong arm draped casually over his own torso, mindful of his injuries, a muscular chest pressed to his back, and the repeated flutter of warm breaths against the back of his neck.


	3. Secrets, growing fondness and friendship, light and shades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Third chapter up! :-) Geralt's and Jaskier's intimacy grows, and as promised, there are some specific incidents I have described here, bringing the two idiots closer together emotionally. Hope you like those! On the other hand, Jaskier is bothered by the growing worry in his heart that Geralt may find out who he truly is, and he is not so sure whether the White Wolf will consider him a friend anymore if that happens. Read on to find out more !
> 
> PLEASE PLEASE REVIEW AND KEEP YOUR COMMENTS AND YOUR ENCOURAGEMENT COMING...

The next morning, Jaskier had watched slightly horrified as Geralt strode up to one of the horse traders in the village and basically demanded that she sell him one of her dun stallions at half the price she would normally charge. And the woman had yielded without protest, stating simply that she was grateful for the Witcher's intervention in the matter of the drowned dead plaguing the village.

"What was that for?", he had inquired curiously.

Geralt had mumbled a small "You can't walk in this state" and handed him the reins of the horse.

**********************************************************

Jaskier had to admit that being able to ride instead of trudging along behind Roach all day was significantly more pleasant. Not only did it give his blistered, sore feet some much needed respite and his injured, bruised body the time to recuperate from the attack, it also meant that he didn't have to crane his neck to address his Witcher during their (mostly one-sided) conversations as they traveled together.

The next several days were spent mostly riding from one small town or village to another, with Jaskier earning most of the coin with his singing and playing and even dancing a bit of a jig here and there, totally ignoring the amber-eyed glares that were directed his way, and for some reason eagerly anticipating the mild reprimands of _"You shouldn't be taxing your injured body, Jaskier"_ that awaited him as they retired to their room later in the night. 

However, there was also a downside of not having to walk ten to fifteen miles a day. And that was the nightmares.

Previously, the exertion from walking, sometimes jogging, sometimes stumbling along behind Geralt and Roach used to prove a little too much for the bard (although, admittedly, except for the first few days, Geralt made sure to ride Roach rather slow, and more often than not chose to walk side by side with the bard instead of riding the mare) - pretty much every night he would sink into a deep, deep slumber, completely undisturbed by any nightmares, and every morning he would wake up feeling refreshed, even before the Witcher fully awoke himself. 

But nowadays, on some nights, Geralt would wake to the sound of a pained whimper, and turning to his side, he would see Jaskier's face contorted in some unspoken, unknown agony while the younger man tossed and turned, his shirt drenched in sweat. No words would be audible, but it didn't take the senses of a Witcher to know the bard must be in the throes of some deeply harrowing nightmare, and Geralt, no matter how much he shook Jaskier by his shoulders, would be unable to rouse him. In the end, the Witcher would settle for drawing the shaking, writhing body of his friend ( _he was far from admitting it out loud, but his heart really could not deny this anymore_ ) close to his own, trying to comfort him with his own body-warmth. And Geralt's strong arms wrapped around Jaskier's frame would help anchor the bard, steadily working to draw him out of his nightmares and lull him back to restful sleep.

The following morning, Jaskier would awake to amber eyes staring down worriedly at him where his head rested against Geralt's chest. He would remember next to nothing about the nightmares, thus unable to answer any of the Witcher's concerned questions. But deep down, he had little doubt where the nightmares came from - the darkest recesses of his mind that just could not obliterate the memories of a childhood filled with abuse, violation and molestation.

But outweighing the fear in Jaskier's heart of Geralt somehow deducing his past, his true identity from the nightmares, and the nagging worry in Geralt's heart for Jaskier's health, was a new feeling, a new knowledge.

_The knowledge that they had become, slowly yet steadily, so comfortable around each other that the grumpy, grouchy, brooding Witcher did not hesitate pulling the ridiculous, silly, garrulous little bard into the security of his arms, his chest._

_The knowledge that Jaskier could snuggle into the warmth of that broad, sculpted chest when his mind was a mess, his heart beating in a frenzy of distress and fear and pain, and the Witcher would not only let him, but would encompass him in a hug, draw him impossibly closer, make sure he was hidden from all the terrors of the world._

_The knowledge that Geralt of Rivia had come to trust and care for Jaskier the Bard like he had never cared for anyone else in the entire Continent ever since he was abandoned by his mother, Visenna the sorceress._

*****************************************************************

One evening, they stopped at an inn in White Orchard, a city in Temeria, right on the banks of the river Ismena. Jaskier was happy – he had always wanted to see rivers and seas and oceans up close – and he just could not help the way he positively beamed, even when talking to strangers. What he didn’t notice was how his Witcher’s grim facade cracked a tiny bit every time he watched the bard through the corner of his eye, his lips quirking up in a small but unmistakably endearing smile. 

The inn was a busy one, and a rowdy crowd had gathered in the dining hall even before the sun set properly. Jaskier’s eyes shone – he saw his opportunity of performing in front of a jolly, already-half-drunk, and hopefully not too parsimonious crowd, and nearly preened in his excitement to impress them.

“See how I butter them up!”, he winked at his Witcher and Geralt couldn’t help but bark a laugh.

“Here’s to hoping for a great dinner tonight, then”, he touched the bouncing bard’s shoulder for just a few seconds and let go, and Jaskier felt like someone had just boosted his confidence five times.

But he soon realized, upon entering the hall, that he wouldn’t really have it so easy.

There was another bard on the scene.

A middle-aged, charming, gregarious, way-too-handsome fellow who looked like a strutting peacock in his garish costume, the rouge-smudged face split in a victorious smile as he surveyed his audience like a hawk eyeing its prey, all the while lewd comments and risqué songs pouring forth from those bright crimson lips.

_Ugh!_

The moment the man’s eyes fell upon Jaskier, they narrowed for a split second before crinkling up in mirth as he let out a derisive laughter.

“And who might this one be? A fellow bard? Do be welcome, do be welcome, good sir – we parched listeners cannot wait to drink from your fountain of wisdom and melody.”

The crowd started jeering even as Jaskier cradled his lute and walked to the elevated platform right in front of the inn’s bar that acted as a stage for the performers.

And so it began – the proverbial fistfight between the two bards, except that it was, thankfully, limited to sneers, jibes, snide remarks and vicious mocking of each other using songs and satire.

And it would have stayed that way, had Geralt not walked into the hall, three more Witchers in tow.

The mutants were instantly recognizable, thanks to the way their irises caught the ruddy glow of the flames in the hearth and sparkled and glittered like pools of molten gold, along with their stout, velvet-black, silver-studded armour and the double swords they carried on their backs.

The other bard must have noticed the way Jaskier’s eyes were drawn towards Geralt, and how the Witcher’s usually stony and rather unnerving expression softened at the sight of Jaskier, and the smallest of smiles tugged at his lips, because in the next moment, he had given up trying to needle his rival and pounced (well, verbally) on the Witchers instead, his razor-sharp words now meant to vilify and malign the mutants.

“Oh, look at those Witchers!  
The cruel, ruthless butchers!  
Oh how those lurid eyes shine –  
How relentlessly they pine  
For the taste of human blood  
Drained straight from the heart  
Ripped out of …”

Jaskier wasn’t sure what happened next.

One moment, he was standing on the other end of the stage, his lute in his hands, eyes still trained on his White Wolf, the next, he was on top of the other bard, face livid with fury, pinning the scoundrel down and throwing punch after punch at his face, head, neck, chest – pummeling him as the bard tried to ward off his blows. 

And all the while, the younger bard’s voice dripped venom as it bellowed, _”Don’t you dare! Don’t you fucking dare call him a butcher! He is my friend, do you hear me? You filthy son of a bitch…”_

His mind vaguely registered a familiar pair of extremely warm, calloused palms on his shoulders, pulling him back, restraining him, and a familiar rough, deep voice next to his ears, murmuring, “Jaskier, no! Don’t, Jaskier! Please, stop!”

Geralt's voice gradually soothed Jaskier, drawing him out of the bout of blinding rage that had taken hold of him, leaving him panting heavily and eyeing the other bard, now scrambling away as fast as possible, with the promise of vengeance.

A different, though equally gravelly, voice chuckled from somewhere above Jaskier’s head.

“You have found us Witchers a protector, Geralt! Good job, brother!”

**********************************************************************

Geralt couldn’t help the way his eyes lit up with pride, affection, gratitude and protectiveness as he glanced, every so often, at the bard who sat, positively glowering, next to him.

They were seated at one corner of the dining hall, Jaskier surrounded by the four darkly handsome Witchers. Geralt had introduced them as his close friends: Eskel and Lambert from the School of the Wolf, and Aiden from the School of the Cat (and hence had dangling from his neck a medallion with the face of a yowling cat etched onto it instead of a wolf).

Quite uncharacteristically, Jaskier had merely grunted his greetings to the Witchers instead of going all verbose and poetic on them, and had become increasingly taciturn as the evening wore on, muttering monosyllabic replies that Geralt had thought was _his_ copyright. The White Wolf was both surprised and amused, especially when he caught Jaskier glaring daggers at the other bard who sat sporting a bleeding lip and a broken nose, a few tables away.

“You’ve taught the man a fine lesson, Jaskier”, Eskel said softly, placing a hand on the back of the bard, “Come now, don’t stay so angry.”

Despite himself, Jaskier’s cheeks coloured, and a smile lit up his face.

“There you are, laddie”, said the older and far more menacing-looking Lambert, “Though I have to admit, it is good to have people on our side. People watching out for us.”

“Aye, these are seriously bad times”, pronounced Aiden, the youngest of the four Witchers, his eyes cautiously inspecting the surroundings before he continued, “Witchers are being attacked. Still covertly, but news is starting to spread. And the fire is catching on, spreading.”

Geralt’s tankard stopped halfway from reaching his lips.

“What do you mean?”

“You haven’t heard?”, Aiden looked a bit surprised, “It started farther east from here. Some idiot aristocrats and priests – well, fanatics and zealots, in hindsight – started rumours that Witchers are – well, they are an abomination. Mutants born of dark magic, and hence monsters themselves. They started sending assassins, to finish off Witchers traveling through their territories, their parishes.”

“Aye”, continued Eskel as Aiden paused to take a swig of his ale, “So far, villagers and commoners have not sided with them. The poor folks know what it is like to be exposed to monsters in the wilderness, after dark. But those rich, dastardly nobles...”, he shook his head resignedly.

“But why?”, inquired Jaskier, looking lost and confused, “You all are so … so noble! You help people, you keep them safe!”

Eskel now warmly clasped the bard’s shoulder, nearly hugging him, “If only everyone were like you, Jaskier. But they are not, unfortunately. Witchers are – well, let’s just say, we are a _lot_ more powerful compared to even the strongest human. And we are imbued with magic. Most kings and queens, especially tyrants and despots, resent the power we wield – fear us.”

“They fear what they do not understand, what they cannot comprehend, Jaskier”, said Geralt quietly, a hand moving to cover Jaskier’s palm resting on the bard’s thigh, “They fear power they can never attain. Power they are afraid might dethrone them, vanquish them. And royalty”, Geralt’s jaws now clenched and his eyes burned fiercely, “Royals are the worst kind of parasites there ever was among humankind, Jaskier.”

His slightly inebriated state did not let him notice how the bard shivered – a barely perceptible vibration in the svelte frame, as Jaskier hurriedly nodded and hid his face in his tankard, drinking deeply.

“Which kingdoms?”, growled Geralt, the scowl still on his face.

“Mostly in Aedirn, Rivia and Lyria. Vengerberg, Aldersberg, Eisenlaan in Aedirn, Dravograd and Red Port on the border of Lyria and Angren. News has reached us that more than a dozen Witchers have been assaulted, and five were killed. There’s news of stirrings and small clashes from Murivel and Rinde. But the western kingdoms are still largely peaceful.”

“Fucking bastards, especially those extremist assholes from Aldersberg and Eisenlaan”, Geralt spat, his golden eyes now resembling flaming bits of cinder.

And as Eskel tried to comfort the furious White Wolf and Lambert and Aiden tried to drown themselves in their ale, everyone looking glum, none of the mutants cared to notice how pale Jaskier had become, how ill he suddenly looked.

************************************************************************

Many, many times in the last few months, Jaskier had contemplated revealing himself - his past - to Geralt. He trusted the Witcher with his life. With his everything. And yet, somewhere, he had been unable to.

Because he had found out, soon after appointing himself Geralt's travel companion, that the White Wolf hated royalty. 

_No, 'hated' was an understatement._

_The Witcher abhorred royalty. Loathed people of royal blood with his entire being._

In his eyes, the royals were bloodthirsty leeches who gorged and grew bloated and corpulent on the blood and sweat of the common people - people who worked their asses off in farms and fields, in mines and smithies, in markets and infirmaries, as peasants, farmers, cobblers, butchers, healers, miners, carpenters, blacksmiths, and yet at the end of the day, had little to no money to feed themselves and their family.

In his eyes, the royals were rotten to the core, with no hope of redemption whatsoever, who were responsible for the deaths of thousands of civilians and soldiers in wars that they fought for political leverage, for conquering and controlling even larger areas of land, their greed never sated, and yet they never once fought in the vanguard, never once put their own lives in harm's way.

In his eyes, the royals and their sycophantic nobles were the worst corruption, the worst curse to the society.

Not that Geralt was far from the truth. Jaskier himself knew, from first hand experiences in his past life, that he was quite right in his assessment of the royal class. 

And this was what had led Jaskier to keep his mouth shut. To continue with the guise he had first introduced himself to Geralt under.

And now … and now it seemed to him that he was doomed to stay silent forevermore. To keep his true name, true identity concealed from his Witcher for as long as he lived. 

_If ever he finds out who I am …_  
_Oh, the wrath, the hatred his eyes will regard me with…_  
_The revulsion, the repugnance he will be filled with, towards me … towards his own bard …_

Jaskier’s heart would twist in pain every time the poisonous skeins of these dark thoughts tightened their noose around him, until all he could do was clutch his chest and grapple to draw breath.

**********************************************************************************

The day they left White Orchard behind, moving farther west, they parted ways with the other Witchers, with both Eskel and Aiden pulling a rather pleasantly astonished Jaskier into hugs, and Lambert playfully smacking him on his shoulders with a “Come to Kaer Morhen some day, bard!”

“What did he mean? Lambert?”, he asked Geralt curiously, as they set off along the banks of the river Ismena (a route that Jaskier didn’t know the White Wolf had chosen just to make sure the bard could enjoy the view of the river during their daytime rides – something that he knew would make Jaskier even more cheerful and sprightly than usual).

“Every winter, we Witchers from the School of the Wolf head back to the ancient mountain stronghold of Kaer Morhen, where we received our training many decades back”, Geralt explained goodnaturedly while maneuvering Roach.

“And he wants me to visit?”

Geralt smiled, and Jaskier nearly ogled at how shy that smile was, and that very slight blush creeping up the Witcher’s rather pale face.

_What on earth?_

“He means that … uh … that I should bring you with me. To Kaer Morhen”, the Witcher said haltingly, his eyes downcast and not making contact with Jaskier’s, “Like … like bringing you home … to meet everyone.”

Jaskier felt like his heart would leap out of his rib-cage in a mad rush and soar, far above them in the sky.

And quite possibly for the first time in his career as a bard, he felt like he had been robbed of all speech. So they continued in silence, the bard still looking incredulous and his heart hammering way too loudly, and the Witcher keeping his head bowed, his eyes ahead on the road.

After a moment, the bard spoke again.

“You … will take me there?”

“May be”, the Wolf still resolutely looked anywhere but at his companion, “If you like, Jaskier.”

*******************************************************************

A few days later, they paused at a village in order for Geralt to replenish his stock of some rare medicinal herbs that were absolutely indispensable in brewing the inky black potion that he sometimes swallowed to gain even greater resilience and vitality in his fights against particularly strong, malevolent and insidious monsters.

They went up to the healer - a woman named Maithili with wispy white hair and too many wrinkles on her face - someone Geralt had known for many long years and whom he regarded as truly one of the experts in herblore. 

"Would you like to test some of this salve, Witcher? It's a new invention of mine. Could make some of those nasty scars on your face disappear", Maithili smiled up at Geralt, holding out a glass jar filled with a white coloured paste.

"Save it, Maithili. How much for these?"

As Geralt stepped outside to load the new purchases into Roach's saddlebag, Jaskier timidly approached the healer.

"Um, does that really remove scars?"

The old lady threw him a nearly toothless smile. "Yes, it does", she said with conviction, "Especially ones on a human body, if not a mutant's."

"How much does it cost, Maithili?"

As he quietly put the jar away in the pocket of his cloak, the woman explained, "Rub it on every night, before you go to sleep. Continue for two weeks straight. You'll see the results. I promise."

And as he stepped out of the healer's cottage, Jaskier breathed deep, wondering whether he could truly rid himself of not just the scars on his back of regular whippings he had received from his father his entire childhood and adolescence, but also all the pernicious long-term effects the abuse had left on his mind - the fear and darkness that lurked in his subconscious.

*************************************************************************

A week later found the duo camping by the shores of Lake Vizima.

It was absolutely exquisite, and Jaskier just couldn't help the poetic drivel that spilled forth from his lips at the sight of the clear, glacial-blue waters of the vast lake, its ochre-yellow sand banks shrouded in dense woods of lofty pines, fir and cedar trees. Few people lived this close to the lake, and it was high summer, so the companions decided to camp out underneath the open sky.

It was a clear night, close to new moon, with not a speck of cloud visible, and the sky above them looked like a bejeweled, midnight-blue velvet canopy studded with glittering chips of stars. Geralt and Jaskier sat side by side in front of their tent, a roaring fire burning in front of them, their eyes continually being drawn up towards the heavens in silent, mesmerized wonder.

"Geralt?"

"Hmm?"

"Will you please tell me a story?"

There was something in the tone in which Jaskier spoke - childlike wonder, innocent curiosity, affection and hope. And the White Wolf, instead of dismissing the request with a clipped reply, found himself slowly opening up to his bard, his heart full of the unfamiliar, seldom encountered feeling of trust and fondness for this lively, affable, sunny, darling little human, and his tone indulgent.

"Would you like to hear the story of a Striga?"

"Yes! What is a Striga, Geralt?"

"Strigas aren't monsters. They are spawned when a very specific kind of curse is inflicted upon an unborn female child. They are very rare, so most do not even believe they exist. Now this Striga that I am talking about - this Striga was a princess..."

And the night wore on, as the starlit sky watched over the two companions, one recounting a story with a far-off look on his face, the other lapping it all up with a rapt, enchanted expression.

By the time the story was done, it was past midnight, but neither Geralt nor Jaskier felt like going to sleep. They sat there in companionable silence as the fire crackled on, and the nightly sounds in the woods all around them deepened.

"Geralt?", Jaskier broke the silence again.

"Hmm?"

"Can I say something?"

Geralt didn't reply, just looked at Jaskier with a soft smile on his face that said, _"You know you can tell me whatever you want."_

"I know you won't believe me if I tell you this. But ... but will you at least try? Try to keep it inside your heart? Not forget it, not dismiss it? And if you need to hear it again, ever, ask me?"

The Witcher turned around to face his companion properly now, a small, perplexed frown creasing his forehead.

"Jaskier?"

"I want you to know that you are the kindest, bravest, strongest, most lovable, most amazing person I have ever met, Geralt."

The Witcher's shimmering gold eyes widened, and somehow, his face twisted a little as if in pain, as he swallowed thickly.

"Yes, I know", continued his bard, "I know it is incredibly hard for you to believe this, much less embrace it at this point. But I hope ... I truly do ... that a day will come when ... when you will know it with all your being. That you are absolutely amazing, Geralt."

"Jaskier, I...", the Witcher's eyes were now downcast, and his breathing sounded a bit laboured, "I have erred so much, Jaskier."

"As have us all, Geralt. And I do _not_ believe that you hurt anyone intentionally, Geralt. _Anyone_. And yes, that includes the extremely unfortunate incident of Blaviken. You..."

__"Jaskier..."_ _

__"No, listen, Geralt - you are just not the kind of person who would harm anyone on purpose. In fact you are the kind of person who would quite possibly regret slaying even those who deserve death many times over."_ _

__"You see good in everyone, Jaskier", the Wolf scoffed._ _

"As do you, Geralt", the bard smiled as the Witcher's eyes snapped up to his in puzzlement, "Think about it. You try to seek out the good in everyone. Okay, may be not the royalty, granted - but most of those people _are_ assholes, as you rightly pointed out." 

__The Witcher stayed silent, and if his eyes were shining a bit wetly, his bard chose to ignore it._ _

__"Here, let me show you a cool trick I learned from my tutor."_ _

__Jaskier rose from the log he had been sitting on and went and sat in between the fire and the tent, his hands raised and positioned so that their shadows fell on the fabric wall of the tent. Geralt raised his eyebrows quizzically._ _

__"Watch the shadows."_ _

__And with that, the bard started crooking, intertwining, skillfully moving the fingers of his hands - sometimes joined and sometimes separate - creating images of objects, moving or stationary, on the wall of the tent._ _

__"You know shadowgraphy?!", Geralt asked, his voice openly expressing his amazement and his admiration for his bard._ _

__"Yes! Not a lot, just the basics. It's also called ombromanie", explained Jaskier cheerfully._ _

__Geralt's amber eyes nearly forgot to blink as he watched every minute move of Jaskier's fingers, and the strikingly lifelike images their shadows cast - a bird in flight, a rabbit scurrying over grass, a waddling duck, a barking dog, a kitten, a small house next to a tree..._ _

__"And this", Jaskier said, sounding rather pleased with himself, "This is how you create the silhouette of a groom riding to his wedding!"_ _

__And up popped on the tent wall the silhouette of a man, wreathed with a circlet around his head, cape fluttering behind him, proudly riding a horse._ _

__"And this is how you create the bride, all decked up in her bridal attire", he said happily, projecting onto the tent wall the silhouette of a bride in a flowing gown, sporting a tiara and holding a bouquet of flowers._ _

__"But since I need both hands to create each of them, I can't do them simultaneously", he said, a tad morose._ _

__"Do the groom again", Geralt spoke quietly._ _

__"What?"_ _

__"Do it again. The groom."_ _

__Jaskier obliged._ _

__Geralt stood up soundlessly from the log on which he had been perched so long and came padding over to where Jaskier sat. Sitting down next to the bard, he carefully watched the way Jaskier had his fingers and palms positioned._ _

__Slowly, he imitated it._ _

__And held out his conjoined hands so that the shadow fell on the tent wall, right next to Jaskier's._ _

_Two grooms riding on horses._

_Two grooms riding to their wedding..._

_...their wedding to each other..._

_...to be united, for life._


	4. The fear of losing you, the realization of loving you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies! The 4th chapter is up, and it talks about Geralt (and to some extent Jaskier, though of course, he is emotionally less constipated than our darling White Wolf) realizing more and more how alone, how desolate, how empty he and his life would become should he lose Jaskier, and how much his heart had come to love for the bard. And this chapter encompasses two rather momentous incidents in the journey of companionship of the two men ... please let me know what you think of them!! 
> 
> There will be one more chapter (I think) before you all are doused in a boatload of angst ... so please do hang in there and keep the encouragement, the kudos and the comments coming :-D

"Geralt, stop fidgeting!", Jaskier rolled his eyes.

"I'm not _fidgeting_ , Jaskier!"

"Yes you are! And you are pacing all around the room looking like a frustrated, vexed parent worried sick for his child, when you ought to have left through that door ten minutes back!"

"Jaskier", Geralt let out an exasperated sigh, and looked seriously at the now chortling bard, "I am genuinely worried. Please!"

"But I gave you my word! I won't leave the premises of the inn after dark. Swear upon ... well, whatever you wish me to swear upon", the bard placed a hand upon his heart as if to reinforce the solemnity of that promise, but spoiling the effect by winking at his Witcher.

"Jaskier, you are too overjoyed at the sight of this lake! You keep wandering off to its shores!"

"What can I say? Lake Vizima is absolutely stunning, Geralt!"

"Yes, I agree, but please ... there are parts of the lake that are _not safe_ , Jaskier! You really shouldn't wander alone..."

"And I won't! I swear! I'll wait until you are back, and we shall go visit the lake one last time tomorrow morning before we leave. Okay?"

"I don't know, bard ... may be I shouldn't take up this one, rather petty assignment. May be I should be around to keep an eye on you."

"What am I, a child?"

"Not much more mature than that!"

The bard glared at the White Wolf with the best scowl he could muster on his features, though he doubted his surprisingly agitated friend even saw that.

"Geralt, I won't venture out after dark. Upon my honour, okay? Why are you _so_ worried, Geralt?"

The Witcher shook his snowy head and pinched the bridge of his nose, suddenly weary, "I don't know, Jaskier. There's something odd I feel - some weird smell in the air. A ... a premonition, if you will."

He was endearing this way - Jaskier thought, as he tilted his head and surveyed his darling Witcher. Then, he stood up from their bed and walked up to Geralt, to hold him by his shoulders.

"Geralt, please stop worrying. I'm safe. As long as you are there, I am safe."

Geralt looked up at Jaskier, the gold-amber irises and the cornflower-blue ones drowning in each other. Slowly, the Witcher's hands came up to cup the bard's beautiful face - a gesture so unexpected that both men felt their breaths hitch.

"You promise you won't do anything stupid while I am gone, bard? You promise you will take care of yourself?"

"You have my word, dear Witcher. You will find me in one piece upon your return."

"I won't be able to return before dawn. There are too many Alghouls plaguing this abandoned temple, and it is a little ways off from the village."

"I understand. I'll be here", Jaskier smiled, resisting the sudden urge to rest his forehead against the Witcher's, "Right here. Waiting for you."

*******************************************************************************

They had hiked along the southern shores of Lake Vizima, and now were at the westernmost tip of the lake, where the woods had thinned a bit to make room for a small village, with a lovely inn. Surprisingly enough, it was Geralt who had insisted they move to the inn for this one night, whereas Jaskier had whined to camp under the open sky this one last night they had to enjoy the beauty of the lake.

Shortly after they had checked in to the inn, the village alderman had shown up with an assignment for Geralt - to free a deserted, but still revered, temple close to the village of the Alghouls who had infested the place for the last several months, occasionally raiding the village for fresh prey - fresh blood. 

Geralt had decided to leave right after sundown, but then had given in to a rather uncharacteristic fit of dithering and dawdling, as some sort of strange foreboding weighed down on his mind.

In the end, after much coddling by Jaskier, he relented, donned his armour, took up his weapons and left, making Jaskier vow not to set foot outside after dark alone one last time before shutting the door behind him.

After dinner was over - a lonely one, to be honest - a slightly morose Jaskier dragged himself upstairs to their room. Not the faintest breath of air stirred outside, and even after throwing open the windows, he felt suffocated inside the tiny room. And he knew that sleep would be a long time coming.

"Well, I did promise him", Jaskier huffed in annoyance, "But this room is just too stifling. It wouldn't hurt to just go out for a little walk, would it? I mean, how dangerous could it be?"

For some reason, he felt a strange pull - almost a need - to go outside. He chalked it up to the summer heat, and the room not being airy enough, and his defiance towards what he claimed inwardly as _Geralt the dolt's overprotective attitude_.

********************************************************************************

It was so much more pleasant outside. 

Granted, there was still no breeze so to speak, but the air was considerably cooler than that inside the inn's dingy room, and there was a faint crescent moon in the sky, and the lake stretching out in front of him very faintly shimmered like spun silver in the moonlight and starlight. The waves lapped against each other and the rocks lining the shore, emitting a soothing noise. It was utterly tranquil, and Jaskier felt like he could float away somewhere impossibly far off, if he but closed his eyes and let himself be swept off by the sublimity, the ethereality of it all.

He probably had closed his eyes and dozed off. When he suddenly woke with a start, finding himself lying on his back on the sandy beach of the lake, gazing up at the stars, it was past midnight.

How had he stayed outside for this long?!

_And unbeknownst to him, for the first time in this entire evening, an inexplicable fear sunk its cold talons into Jaskier's mind._

He was completely alone, and quite a bit far from the outskirts of the village. It was as Geralt had claimed - the bard's feet did wander, and did always bring him close to the lake. And if he needed help right now, nobody would be able to hear him.

Not to mention that, for some reason, Jaskier felt ...

_... he felt like he was being watched ..._

_... that he was not alone anymore ..._

_... and whoever was watching him from some well-concealed spot, perhaps in the woods around him - wasn't exactly a friend ..._

_... and his heart started thudding in his rib-cage as the sensation of imminent danger crept down his spine like ice-melt ..._

The bard sat up very cautiously, very slowly, as if moving fast would alert whichever being was stalking him. And he looked around, peering into the gloom, desperately hoping to see something - anything - as he slowly, shakily got to his feet.

Should he make a run for it?

But he doubted he would be able to get very far, if this being was some wild predator, or worse, some sort of monster.

_Oh, Geralt!_

_Why did I not listen to you, my friend?_

But there was no point feeling contrite now. He was alone at the moment, and he would have to rely upon his wits to get out of this predicament.

Slowly, he drew out the hunting dagger he carried around in the boot on his right foot, from underneath his trouser leg, and held it up, gleaming coldly in the waning moonlight.

And immediately, he saw it. As if his eyes were drawn to it by some irresistible force.

_Two balls of fire._

_Two fiendish eyes - a lurid fire burning in them._

_And out stepped from behind a clump of bushes ..._

_A gigantic hound !_

_A fell beast - blacker than the darkest of nights._

_Skeins of darkness, of evil oozing out of its mammoth frame._

_Mouth agape - flames like molten magma seething inside the maw, dripping down in fiery droplets and leaving a trail on the ground like liquefied fire._

Jaskier didn't need to be a Witcher to know what monstrosity stood facing him.

A hellhound.

The bard felt like his knees might buckle and his body might crumple to the ground. Sheer, unadulterated terror pulsed through his veins, his mind threatening to shut down.

_No escape! There could be no escape from this ... hellhounds were creatures straight from the underworld, and even a Witcher would be hard put to deal with one..._

As if in reply to the errant thoughts of his frantic mind, the hound raised its head and howled.

_Baying for the bard's blood._

Jaskier clapped his palms over his ears, his eyes watering, fearful that the sound might have ruptured his eardrums. His breaths were coming shallow and rapid, and he knew that if he didn't at least make an attempt to run - to move - his muscles would atrophy and his limbs would become frozen to immovable stone in a few more minutes.

With a cry that came out more as a broken plea for help, the terrified human tried to turn around and sprint back towards the village, except that his legs moved sluggishly, reluctantly, and before he could run more than twenty paces, he had tripped over a tree root and crashed, face forward, to the ground.

The hellhound looked almost bored as it languidly stalked over to where its prey lay panting on the ground, terrified eyes protruding from the sockets, one hand clutching the heart whose beats the creature could hear, the scent of the blood it pumped filling the beast's nostrils...

It would be awfully easy ... to just pounce on the hapless prey - the petty, puny fool of a human. Unhurriedly, the creature raised a paw, prepared to sever that head from that torso with nary but a flick ...

_With a deafening roar, someone crash-landed right next to the stunned bard even as he saw the creature get hit by a concentrated beam of pure energy and skitter away from him, wailing in pain and anger ..._

_... and Geralt, hair flying all around him like a whirlwind, rush towards the creature, brandishing his steel sword in one hand, conjuring spells that glowed eerily blue and silver in his other._

The hound had its fire-dripping eyes and mouth now fully focused upon the far more deadly opponent facing it, and it crouched down, ready to leap up and lunge at the White Wolf. 

"Jaskier, go! Run!"

The Witcher threw the words without turning his head as he readied himself for his own spring towards the creature.

But the bard stayed right where he was, petrified with shock, and his heart pounding ...  
_... with dread at what the creature might do to Geralt...  
... with the sheer need to stand by his friend as he fought this foe from the underworld._

Jaskier's body took a long time to respond to his mind's urgent commands to stand up, to somehow - anyhow - help his friend. He forced his numbed legs to straighten, to support his weight as he shakily stood up, feeling like he might topple any moment.

In front of him, the fiercest battle he had ever witnessed was raging on. Geralt - ever the nimble and sure-footed Witcher - his sword flashing and rippling, his mutant body gliding from one stance to another lightning fast, kept the hellhound at bay, occasionally shooting beams of pure, destructive energy at it which it sometimes ducked to avoid, and sometimes got hit by and staggered back.

But Jaskier knew, from what little he had read from bestiaries, that hellhounds could not be killed. They could only be banished to the netherworld from where they came, and that too by the most powerful, most adroit of Witchers or sorcerers or mages, mustering the entirety of their magical prowess and unleashing it upon the beast at its fullest havoc-wreaking potential. 

And for that, the opponent fighting the hellhound needed a window of opportunity. A window to summon that much of energy.

Jaskier knew that Geralt, no matter how resilient and unbelievably powerful he was, would eventually tire out, and much sooner than the beast which was fueled by the forces of evil, vengeance and immensely potent dark sorcery. And when that happened...

_... the beast would get a split second worth of window in which to rip apart the White Wolf..._

_... rip apart his best friend - his ... his everything - like a mere rag-doll..._

_Well, not on Jaskier's watch it won't!_

The bard didn't know where his body got such a burst of energy from. With a shrill yell, he charged forward, holding up his hands and shouting:

"Here, look at me, you hideous, horrid fuckface! Here I am - come get me, you motherfucking abomination from hell!"

He hadn't expected that it would take just that one shout to draw the attention of the hellhound. 

The beast paused in its prowling in a circle of carefully maintained radius around Geralt, frothing lava at the mouth, and turned its head to look at the human running wildly towards it.

And just as Geralt pounced on this opportunity and extended both palms forward, a blinding sheet of light projecting forth from them and striking the beast square in the chest, the hellhound opened its mouth and a streak of liquid fire shot forth, narrowly missing Jaskier, but showering all around him and instantly imprisoning him in a ring of livid, malicious flames.

"JASKIER!"

Jaskier collapsed to the ground even as the hellhound vanished into thin air, and Geralt's anguished wail reverberated through the woods around them.

_Oh the smoke! That black, sooty smoke coiling up from the flames all around him..._

_Smothering him, choking him, burning his eyes, clogging his throat and shutting down his lungs..._

Jaskier whimpered in pain, his breaths having become increasingly strenuous, his lungs working in a grueling attempt to draw air into them.

He had been a sickly child, and asthmatic attacks had been common. In the past, whenever they had occurred, he had had Jessa take care of him, give him some medication he knew little about, soothe him and lull him to sleep. But the attacks had not recurred in a long time, and he had been under the (clearly rather erroneous) impression that they had spared him for good.

He saw stars and his vision started to nearly black out from lack of air when he felt the smoke subside and someone nearly slam to the ground by his side in their haste to get to him.

"Jaskier! Oh Jaskier! What's wrong? What's wrong, my friend?"

_No, that definitely couldn't be Geralt._

_Geralt addressing him as "my friend"??_

A very warm, very familiar hand was placed on his back, firmly but gently, where it started rubbing circles, while another kept him sitting straight, not allowing him to crouch forward (which would further constrict his airways). This second hand started rubbing his chest in an up-and-down motion, encouraging blood flow and trying to widen the airways, removing the excess mucous flooding his lungs.

"Ger.. Gera..."

"No! Don't try to speak! Just focus on my voice, Jaskier - focus! In and out, in and out, with me... come on now!"

The voice sounded so urgent, so concerned, so full of fear...

_...fear of losing Jaskier..._

The bard reached out and grasped Geralt's shoulder to steady himself.

"Yes, hang in there... and breathe! Breathe, Jaskier! Breathe ... with me ... inhale and exhale ... in and out ... in and out ... in and out..."

Jaskier willed himself to focus on the rhythmic chant of "in and out, in and out". To follow the instructions. To calm down and slowly, very slowly, inhale and exhale through his nostrils, hoping that his lungs would stop being so obstinate and open up, just a wee bit.

And they did.

Almost agonizingly slowly, gradually, Jaskier's onerous, rattling breaths became more and more normal, less and less pained, under the ministrations of the White Wolf, under the murmurings of his soothing, soft, deep voice persistently urging the bard to breathe in and breathe out.

"That's right... that's a good lad... you're doing great, Jaskier... keep going... in and out... in and out... yes, my friend..."

When the breaths became fully normal, Jaskier just sagged tiredly against the extremely warm body next to his own, curling into it, leaning his head against the broad, armoured chest, closing his eyes.

And Geralt put an arm around the body of his bard, holding him close, rubbing a hand down Jaskier's arm in a comforting way, saying nothing. His warm breaths fell heavily on top of the bard's head, and Jaskier thought (he couldn't be sure) he heard a sniffle from above him.

"Geralt", Jaskier spoke in a ragged, tremulous voice, "I am so sorry. So, so sorry."

Silence.

Worry twisted his heart. 

"Geralt, would you forgive me?"

Still no answer.

At last, the bard pulled away from the comforting confines of his Witcher's strong body and sat up, looking up at Geralt's face.

And felt like a piece of his heart got shattered in that moment.

_The White Wolf sat there, his jaws clenched, his expression stormy._

_Eyes staring ahead, refusing to look at Jaskier, blazing in a way the bard had never seen before._

_Tears ran down his cheeks from those glittering, glimmering eyes like rivulets._

_Trying his best not to let his lips wobble._

"Geralt?", Jaskier began, his voice timid, soft.

"IS THIS A JOKE TO YOU, BARD?"

Jaskier flinched, the enraged yell nearly hitting him like a physical blow.

"YOU TRAVEL WITH A WITCHER, YOU DON'T LISTEN TO HIM, YOU DECIDE TO THROW YOUR LIFE AWAY LIKE IT MEANS NOTHING ... NOTHING TO ANYONE! IS THIS A FUCKING JOKE? AM I A JOKE TO YOU? YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY?"

"Geralt, I..."

"SHUT UP! SHUT THAT FUCKING MOUTH, YOU PRATTLING FOOL! I told you... repeatedly told you to stay indoors! You promised ... damn it, Jaskier!"

Jaskier almost literally shrank, hugging himself, head hanging in shame and hurt.

"You think it is cool and flamboyant to be suicidal, Jaskier? Like you can just toss your life away in a heartbeat, and no one in this world will care? You think that if something were to happen to you ... if you ...", Geralt was panting now, "If you disappeared ... if you died ... you think I can survive it?"

And that had the human whipping his head up to meet the blistering gold orbs trained on him.

"You think you don't matter to me? You think I deserve this, Jaskier?", and the Witcher's voice broke.

"Geralt..."

"I'll be devastated, you fucking imbecile! And still you do this to me... still you try to get yourself killed ... every fucking time!"

Those words seemed to drain the Witcher of his final reserves of energy, and he slumped.

But Jaskier was in front of him in a heartbeat, supporting him by the shoulders.

"I am sorry, Geralt."

And before he knew what he was doing, Jaskier the Bard had cupped Geralt of Rivia's face in his hands and pulled him down, to plant a soft, tearful kiss on his forehead.

And the Witcher leaned into that kiss, into that touch, staying in that posture, his head resting on the crook of his bard's neck.

"I promise I shall never do this again. And I promise I shall never, ever leave - never, ever let go, Geralt."

*********************************************************************

After that fateful night on the shores of Lake Vizima, they struck north.

The countryside was largely peaceful during this time, with very few posters and placards nailed to the front doors of taverns and inns calling for Witchers to slay monsters. The White Wolf faced nothing too perilous during this time - several echinopsae that he described to the bard (to Jaskier's pleasant surprise) in detail and how they needed to be destroyed using fire, quite a few barghests that were all rendered weak from the fact that they were not banded together, and dozens of ghouls that had taken up residence in some of the abandoned shrines in the midst of the wilderness.

The news of a selkiemore lurking in a nearby swamp and scaring off villagers with its ghastly appearance was therefore received by both companions with considerable enthusiasm.

"Can I come? Please? Pretty please?", Jaskier whined, knowing full-well and not caring that he sounded like a five-year-old begging for cotton candy.

"Jaskier", the Witcher grumbled but didn't manage to muster much heat into the remonstrance (if anything, Jaskier would think he sounded a tiny bit indulgent), "After the hellhound incident? Absolutely _not_! It's too dangerous."

"But, Geralt, you yourself said the thing just eats plankton! How ferocious could a _herbivorous_ monster be? If anything, they sound boring..."

"Jaskier..."

"Fine, fine. You always win", the bard pouted.

Where a few months back Geralt would not even have acknowledged the querulous bard, much less prolong the conversation to this length, he now came to stand in front of his companion who was leaning against the wall of the inn and looking out the window with a dejected frown puckering his lips.

"You mind helping me with my armour? The poison from the echinopsae thorns is still bothering my arm a tiny bit."

Jaskier gawked silently at his hulking, looming Witcher. 

_Did the White Wolf just request his bard for help putting on his armour?_

_Has the sun risen in the east today, or west?_

Before the Witcher could change his mind while Jaskier stood there with his mouth hanging partially open, the bard shook himself out of his reverie and got to work with an elated "Of course!".

The armour had many components, and Jaskier tried his best to be efficient about it. Geralt instructed him on fastening some of the parts, and he followed accordingly. Once done, he couldn't help but softly brush his fingertips across the velvety-smooth surface of the metal breastplate, and the Witcher smirked a bit, making Jaskier blush.

"Done admiring?"

"Y-yes. Um, you'll be careful?"

Jaskier made the mistake of raising his eyes to his Witcher's, and immediately felt like he was drowning in a pool of oh-such-euphoric, utter helplessness and submission as he gazed, entranced, into those piercing, molten-gold orbs.

"I'll be careful, Jaskier."

"O-okay. But, uh, the arm? The one that is still sore from the echinopsae venom? That won't cause any trouble, right?"

And Geralt's large, calloused palms came up to rest on the bard's shoulders, thumbs touching the bare skin on either side of Jaskier's neck, and it was all that Jaskier could do to not melt into his Witcher's arms, letting the bigger man support his weight.

_Jaskier felt like his skin was getting utterly scorched by that touch..._

_... oh, that touch ..._

_... the touch of those rough yet soft, way-too-warm hands ..._

_... and the way they are making my whole body ache for him ..._

"Jaskier, stop worrying about me. I promise we shall dine together tonight. Does that sound good?"

***************************************************************

The selkiemore proved more of a challenge than Geralt had originally anticipated. 

By the time the Witcher was done slaying the beast, he was dripping from head to toe in its reeking, noisome guts and ooze, as well as filthy mud from the swamp it had been dwelling in. He started the long, weary trek back towards the village, but halfway there, on the outskirts of the wilderness, he ran into a terrified Jaskier running helter-skelter across the rather undulating terrain.

"Jaskier!"

"Geralt! GERALT!"

And the bard slammed into his Witcher's chest, utterly heedless of the stench and the goo.

"Jaskier, what the ...?"

"The alderman - he said", Jaskier was panting like a hunted animal, and Geralt saw, with his heart clenching, the tears that still trickled down the bard's reddened eyes, "H-he said..."

"Jaskier, what is it?", Geralt tightly clutched the bard's shoulders, concern clouding his voice.

"He said the monster swallowed you whole, Geralt", Jaskier's voice broke, "I thought ... I thought you..."

He couldn't continue anymore. And Geralt felt something break inside him.

_When was the last time anyone cared for you so, White Wolf?_

_When was the last time anyone panicked for your safety and well-being, watched your back, prayed fervently that you come home? Rushed to your aid at the slightest hint of harm coming to you?_

"Jaskier...", he found himself rubbing his palms down the bard's arms, urging him to calm down, to stop crying, "Look at me, look at me..."

And the cornflower-blue eyes, shining through a thick veil of unshed tears, gazed up at him.

"Jaskier, I am okay. I am okay. Breathe, Jaskier. Breathe, my friend."

"Geralt, you're okay? Truly okay? Unhurt?", Jaskier asked tearfully in a hoarse, faltering voice, his palms cupping Geralt's cheeks as the Witcher leaned into the touch with his eyes fluttering in a strange feeling of happiness and warmth.

"Unhurt and nearly unscathed, my friend. I swear."

The two companions - the two friends - stood there for a long time, Geralt with his hands on Jaskier's arms, Jaskier with his pressed to Geralt's face. Their chests nearly touching, their foreheads pressed together, eyes closed as each breathed deeply in the other's scent ... each rather reluctant to step away and let go of the other's touch. But eventually, they had to.

"Let's...", Jaskier began, his eyes shyly downcast, and a timid ( _but absolutely beautiful, Geralt thought_ ) smile playing on his lips, "Let's head to the inn. Let's get you cleaned up, shall we?"

"Yes", Geralt's own voice was softer than ever before, expression tender, "And you", he gave Jaskier's own shirt, now marred by smatterings of the selkiemore guts and mud from having hugged Geralt, an amused look, "And then, we dine together."

And if the two friends stayed rather close to one another as they walked back all the way to the inn, with their fingers nearly touching - sometimes one hand unconsciously, or not so unconsciously, brushing against the other, caressing the palm - neither chose to acknowledge it.

******************************************************************************

Geralt watched with his mouth slightly agape as his bard - his gentle, sweet, amiable slip of a human - bared his teeth like a feral being at the innkeeper, who initially refused to send their foul-smelling, slime-covered clothes and Geralt's armour for laundering and cleaning, until the man relented.

"And send up a bath for us", Jaskier commanded the indignant innkeeper in a growl, and despite his long years of Witcher training teaching him to mask all his emotions, Geralt felt his face crack into a proud grin. 

******************************************************************************

Jaskier slowly drew aside the screen separating the bath from the rest of their room at the inn, and poked his head around it.

And immediately ducked out, blushing a bright shade of magenta.

"Sorry! I thought you were already in the tub!"

He heard Geralt let out an amused snigger, and tried his best to dispel from his mind the image he had just glimpsed...

_...his Witcher stripped naked, back turned to him, muscles rippling throughout his torso, blood and grime and sweat clinging to his skin, slowly lowering himself into the tub._

He soon realized his attempts were proving to be completely futile - the image was now imprinted on his mind for good, there to stay as long as he lived.

"I am, now", called Geralt's deep, gravelly voice, and Jaskier tried not to melt at the sound, "You can come in."

The bard silently padded barefoot to where Geralt lay basking in the tub full of steaming hot water, looking utterly sheepish and averting his eyes from his friend's exposed body.

"I doubt the innkeeper will consent to sending up a new batch of buckets full of hot water. So, you better get in."

_Right._

 _Geralt of Rivia had just invited Jaskier the Bard to join him in the bath._

Jaskier gulped.

"Well, seeing as you are the one who was covered in stinking selkiemore guts ..."

"And seeing as you are the one who hugged said person covered in stinking selkiemore guts ..."

_Who knew the man was this capable in verbal tussles too?_

And before the clever bard could come up with an articulate comeback to that, Geralt looked up at him with huge puppy eyes.

_That's right ... the White Wolf of Rivia looked up at his currently speechless bard with huge puppy eyes._

"I need someone to wash my hair, Jaskier."

_Oh!_

_Well, whatever are you waiting for?_

_You know full-well you can resist his invitation for only so long._

Unable to help the smile on his lips and the butterflies making his stomach do a mad jig, Jaskier turned his back towards Geralt while undoing the buttons of his shirt and the cord fastening his trousers. But just as he was about to drop his garments, leaving himself in nothing but his smallclothes, he remembered, with a jolt of fear in his stomach, the little tattoo he carried on his lower abdomen, just beneath his navel.

An emblem - a falcon in flight surrounded by a ring of fire - embossed onto the skin of Julian the Prince of Aldersberg, just a few weeks after he had been born, in indelible navy-blue ink. It was the sigil borne by every individual in the royal family of Aldersberg who was a lineal descendant of an occupant, or would-be occupant, of the royal throne.

_Did Geralt know of this mark? Would he recognize the symbol?_

Jaskier couldn't be sure, and he could never be too careful. Especially since he was a runaway prince trying to evade being caught and brought back to his abusive family. At least, thankfully, the sigil wasn't exactly the same as the flag of the royal family of Aldersberg (which contained three falcons in flight, embroidered in gold on a field of deep green).

The bard tried to shake off the worried expression he knew his countenance bore, so he would not risk any suspicion from the Witcher. Instead, before completely undressing himself, he went back to the room to grab a clean set of clothes and coming back, laid them in a neat pile right next to the tub. Then, keeping his back turned to the Witcher, he slipped the final piece of garment off his body and climbed into the tub in his smallclothes, thankful that the ointment he had purchased from Maithili had by then erased all traces of the scars that once marred his back.

The tub was rather capacious, and the water deliciously hot. Jaskier sighed, and Geralt gave an amused chuckle behind him.

Jaskier turned around to face Geralt once he was submerged halfway up to his chest. "Alright, time for you to turn around, Wolf. And scoot back towards me."

Geralt complied like an obedient child. Soon, he was seated in between Jaskier's parted legs, his back only inches away from Jaskier's chest, both men oddly comfortable around each other even though their hearts hummed with anticipation.

Pulling the small collection of soaps and pumice stones and bathing lotions that Jaskier carried around for the both of them, the bard sifted through the bottles until he found the eucalyptus oil vial and the citrus-smelling shampoo he was looking for. He poured some of the fragrant oil into the water of the tub, causing Geralt to remark, "So ostentatious, my bard!". Then, taking the small mug that hung from the side of the tub, he dipped it in the water.

"Alright, lean back."

Slowly, Geralt leaned his head a little backward, and Jaskier, his fingers still hesitant, his brain still slightly flabbergasted at what was transpiring right now, undid the leather cord to loosen the pony-tail, then parted the thick, lustrous tresses softly, more gently and more carefully than he himself would have thought possible.

Slowly, he poured the water from the mug through the strands of hair, refilling the mug again and again, making sure Geralt's wealth of beautiful, white hair was completely wet. Slowly, the grit started washing away. Jaskier poured some of the aromatic shampoo in his palm, lathered it, then started rubbing it onto Geralt's scalp, meticulously smearing it over every single strand of hair from root to tip, his trimmed nails scraping the scalp, massaging each follicle...

_... and Geralt's head fully relaxed in the palms of Jaskier's hands ..._

_... he let the weight of his head rest completely in his bard's gentle hands ..._

_... utterly trusting him, knowing that Jaskier wouldn't let go ..._

_... that Jaskier would hold that weight, would care, would support, would be there for him no matter what ..._

The poor bard tried to calm his racing heart, his somersaulting stomach as this knowledge, this realization, squirmed its way into his mind..

_Oh, he was so doomed..._

Once he was sure that the shampoo had been applied properly to every last bit of the Witcher's hair, he said, "Okay, now, scoot a bit closer to me and rest your head on the crook of my neck as I massage your forehead."

Again, his Witcher obliged, his back now pressed flush against Jaskier's chest, each of them leaning into the touch from the other, as if their bodies yearned to get lost in each other.

Jaskier rinsed his hands in the tub's water, then slowly started massaging that proud forehead - his deft fingers pressing down, rubbing, tapping, nearly dancing in quick succession on the temples, down the bridge of that prominent nose - and slowly, surely, steadily, the headache threatening to rise behind the Witcher's closed eyes receded under his bard's ministrations, and Geralt let out a sigh of content, of peace.

"Good?"

"Never better."

"Sit up a bit, now", Jaskier directed, though a part of his brain was loath to part with the contact his chest had with his Witcher's broad back, "I'm going to massage your back."

His dexterous hands continued their massaging down Geralt's sculpted back, kneading the muscles taut with exertion and forcing them to relax and loosen up, knuckling the spine and the lower back, making the Witcher nearly moan in pleasure, a lazy smile tugging his lips.

"Jaskier..."

"Geralt?"

"You are...", a pause, and Jaskier knew his usually taciturn, darling Witcher was casting about for words, "Thank you!"

"You're welcome", the bard couldn't help but smirk a bit, now rubbing the already-soaked pumice stone on the Witcher's back, his shoulders, his arms. Geralt waited patiently as Jaskier continued to lather a soft, delicate soap onto his back and his chest (snaking his arms underneath Geralt's), his gold eyes occasionally drifting to the expression of concentration and care on his bard's face.

_How he cares for me ... how gentle are his touches ... how focused his attention when he is taking care of his Wolf..._

"My turn", he said, when he realized Jaskier was close to being done.

"What?"

Geralt silently extended his palm, asking for the pumice stone and the soap, and Jaskier, gulping a little nervously, handed him those.

"Turn around", the Witcher commanded, even as he himself turned and shifted back to the other end of the tub, "And come closer. No, closer still. Closer, Jaskier! That's better!"

Geralt knew he was not as dexterous and delicate as his bard, but he put his best into scrubbing his bard clean - his hands wandering over Jaskier's wet torso as he smeared him with lather - and a knowing grin pulling at his lips as he realized, more and more, how responsive, how sensitive his Jaskier was to his heated touches, and how his breaths became more and more rapid as Geralt's touches grew more assertive.

And just like that, he leaned forward, knowing full well that his bard was entirely cocooned in his strong arms with his eyes closed and breaths shallow ...

_... and pressed a soft, sensuous kiss onto the soft, flushed skin on one side of the younger man's exposed neck ..._

A breathy moan escaped the helpless bard's lips and Geralt chuckled darkly. 

"Oh, Geralt..."

"Look at me, my bard..."

_How had they come this far?_

_From Geralt stubbornly refusing to ever fall for Jaskier ..._

_... to this?_

And as vivid, sparkling, cornflower-blue orbs looked up vulnerably into his own gold-amber ones, Geralt felt his heart stutter, and tilting forward, he pressed another kiss, right next to the bard's slightly parted lips ...

_... the corners of their lips barely touching ..._

_... barely brushing against each other in a tantalizing promise ..._

_... the promise of lips to be locked in deep kisses ..._

_... the promise of days to come when they would lose themselves in each other's arms ..._

__

_... the promise of love to be made all night long ..._

__


	5. Love waxes and wanes, then turns to ash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is quite a bit of intimacy between Geralt and Jaskier in this chapter, and do let me know if you like the scenes I described. But the angst-train is here, and so y'all angst lovers - rejoice! It will only get worse and even more gut-wrenching in the next chapter, so hang in there tight :-D
> 
> Please do keep in mind that I *do not* hate Yennefer. No, not at all. But I also do not think (and I admit here that I have not read the books, but I have read reviews of people who have read the books) that she is a good match for Geralt as a partner. Certainly his equal, probably even greater than him in power and intelligence. Certainly someone capable of becoming Geralt's closest friend, confidante and compatriot. But a partner is not what _I_ can see in her for Geralt.
> 
> AND PLEASE PLEASE READ AND REVIEW! YOUR KUDOS AND COMMENTS AND ENCOURAGEMENT GO A LOOOOOOONG WAY :-D

They had reached Kaer Morhen that morning.

Fall was over, and winter had just begun to extend its first feelers into the northern reaches of the Continent. Geralt would usually not reach the stronghold this early, but he had a human in tow this time, and so had been unwilling to tarry, lest the Witcher's Trail become inaccessible to Jaskier due to immeasurably deep snow drifts and treacherous, deadly black ice as winter deepened.

Their journey together through Temeria, Redania and as far up north as Crinfrid in Hengfors League had been more pleasant, more convivial, more relaxed and easy-going than ever before - filled with idle banter, harmless jokes, songs and laughter during the days, and deep, thoughtful and honest conversations and wistful storytelling during the nights, punctuated by sensuous touches on each other's arms and shoulders and backs, spontaneous hugs and cuddles, occasional pecks that often deepened into passionate, breathless kisses, burrowing into each other's chests while falling asleep in each other's arms, underneath the same blanket.

Geralt knew that unlike ever before, his lips were nowadays curled up in a near-constant smile, or ready to break into one whether there was any conscious reason for it or not. He listened much more carefully to his bard's songs, his boots often tapping along to the jaunty rhythms of their own accord, his golden eyes reflecting the flames of their campfire as Jaskier danced around it, lute in hands, face beaming, lyrics of love and adoration pouring forth from his deliciously plump, red lips.

Sometimes, Jaskier's persistent begging and whining actually ended up persuading Geralt to sing - and he would hum deep in his throat, usually forgetting lyrics midway, but his bard never failed to encourage him, to gaze up at him, as he sang, with utter devotion and warm, boundless love in those cornflower-blue eyes.

_Oh, such bliss!_

_Were it but to last..._

Jaskier often insisted on getting supplies of spices and condiments from nearby villages when they camped out in the open. He would bring back fragrant, fresh herbs, dried chilies, salt and jaggery, and fresh vegetables, and he would cook a thick, hearty stew of rabbit meat (freshly ensnared by Geralt somewhere out in the wilderness) with potatoes and turnips in a creamy gravy with lots of herbs and spices. And they would sit side by side relishing it - Geralt from a massive bowl that Jaskier had specially purchased for his beloved Witcher, and the bard himself directly from the cook-pot. Geralt would take spoonfuls from his own share and hold them up to Jaskier's lips, insisting that he eat from his Wolf's platter, and Jaskier would shyly oblige, a warm, loving smile on his face. Their eyes would drift closed in the blessedness of it all, and Geralt would smirk at Jaskier and say:

"Oh! The delicacies I get to come home to after I marry you, bard!"

And that would make Jaskier's heart stutter, and his startled eyes to look up to his Witcher's, a small voice in his mind timidly wondering whether Geralt was cracking some cruel joke...

_... but all he would see were the gold-amber irises shining with sincerity, honesty, fondness and endless love..._

Jaskier was mulling over all those memories - those precious, fragile moments of caring for each other, allowing themselves to be vulnerable - when someone tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

"Lost in thought, are we?"

Jaskier turned with a smile to see his White Wolf walk up next to him where he stood leaning against the balustrade of the balcony adjoining Geralt's room, and joined him in staring up at the sky.

Jaskier drew a deep breath. "It's just that ... I am so happy, Geralt! More than I have ever been, before", he confessed, looking a bit sheepish.

"As am I, Jask", Geralt smiled softly, his fingers caressing the knuckles on his bard's hand where it rested upon the balustrade, his eyes still turned towards the heavens.

"The sky ... it's beautiful here", remarked Jaskier, looking like a happy, awestruck child, "Geralt?"

"Mmmm?"

"Shall we try to identify the constellations? See who knows them better", he naughtily wiggled his eyebrows.

Geralt sniggered, shaking his head indulgently, "Bard ... "

"Please? Unless of course the mighty White Wolf is scared? Scared of losing to his amazing bard? Scared of this challenge...?"

Geralt's eyes darkened.

"I accept your challenge, bard. And if you lose, how should you be punished?"

Jaskier's eyes snapped down to meet Geralt's, and he shivered slightly at the look of pure hunger in those glimmering amber orbs. 

_Uh oh..._

Geralt brought his face closer to his bard's, his hot breaths scorching Jaskier's face and throat, making him swoon.

"Well, um, may be we should _not_ try to identify stupid constellations..."

"I think we should. And when you lose, which you will, my Jask", Geralt grinned wolfishly and Jaskier felt like his heart would erupt right then and there, "I will make sure you beg me for mercy. In my bed."

**************************************************************************

Geralt's prediction had been accurate.

Which meant that currently, a slightly alarmed (but mostly bubbling with barely contained excitement, anticipation, and of course, love) Jaskier stood trapped in his Witcher's bedroom, the White Wolf barring his way out the door, his heart hammering and leaping up his throat, his stomach erupting in butterflies, his eyes unable to hold the piercing gaze of those gold-amber ones swimming with unbridled, unrestrained love and lust.

"Geralt..."

"I love you."

Jaskier's breath hitched. He felt like his heart would truly burst out his body, as giddy happiness, love and aching need for his Witcher spread though his veins and arteries. 

_Could it really be true? All these months, my heart has yearned for him ..._

_... all this time, I have grown to care so deeply for him, grown to need him, grown to love him ..._

_... could it really be that he too has grown to love me? Love me back?_

"I love you too", the shy cornflower-blue eyes became instantly downcast.

And that was the last nudge that Geralt had needed.

In two long strides, the Wolf crossed the distance between them and caught his bard in his arms. 

"And do you want me? Because Jask, I am aching for you."

_Who knew the man could be this articulate when it came to asking for lovemaking!_

All Jaskier - the great, garrulous, witty bard - had been able to do was gulp and nod, his face lighting up in unprecedented joy and anticipation and eyes brimming with tears.

Geralt's lips crashed onto Jaskier's, yet despite the sudden ferocity, the kiss itself was slow and deliberately drawn out, as if the lovers were determined to taste each other to the fullest.

Lips perfectly moulding with each other, moving in tandem, tongues darting forth to explore each other's mouths, teeth occasionally nipping at each other's lower lips.

Jaskier's hands tangled in Geralt's snowy tresses, Geralt's own holding the back of his bard's neck, dipping his head just a little, wandering all over the slender man's back as if desperate to touch every inch of heated skin.

Both men helplessly moaning into each other's mouths, frantic, erratic breaths mingling, Jaskier's tears leaving salty tracks on Geralt's lips.

And when they absolutely could not continue a second longer, they broke free, chests heaving in unison as they stood, breathless and panting, holding on to one another for sheer support.

"May I take you to bed?"

"I would love nothing better, dear heart."

The unbuttoning of the shirts, the tugging them off one another's bodies, the unfastening of the cords that held together their trousers and smallclothes - all of it had been so unhurried, so patient, and filled with trading soft kisses - yet all the while they were both quite aware of how their bodies literally hummed and throbbed with the need for each other.

And when finally Geralt guided his bard to his bed, gently supporting the back of his head until Jaskier lay down comfortably, the Witcher hovering above him, their chests brushing against each other and their lips still locked in a passionate, all-consuming kiss, both of them wondered ...

_... the unwanted, unloved, undesired prince, who had been abused, thrashed, whipped, molested, kicked, derided, scorned all his childhood, who had been drilled by his own parents to believe what a disgusting, deplorable, ignominious royal descendant he was, bringing nothing but shame to his family ..._

_... the unwanted, unloved, undesired Witcher, who had been abandoned heartlessly by his own mother at a tender age, subjected to horrific mutating procedures that left him feeling broken, feared and loathed and regarded with mistrust and suspicion by most humans, spat on in villages, pelted with stones in towns, turned away from inns where all he had asked for was some food and water and shelter..._

_... the two damaged, dysfunctional, browbeaten, wounded men wondered, as their bodies tried to mingle and merge with one another ..._

_... was this love? Was this what it felt like? ..._

_... The care, the worry, the need to know if the other person was safe and sound, hale and hearty? ..._

_... The need to show the other person how much he was needed? Wanted? Desired? Cherished? ..._

_... Was this ache that their bodies thrummed with, love?_

Pulling away from the kiss, Geralt's gold eyes looked down into the cornflower-blue ones of his mate (for that was what Jaskier was, Geralt was quickly coming to realize), and reveled in the disheveled, ravaged look of the bard, with his lips red and swollen from Geralt's attentions.

"Geralt...", Jaskier pleaded, his fingers tracing a scar on the Witcher's temple, "I need you... I need you so badly!"

"And I need you more, Jask, my love", Geralt almost growled, possessive.

The Wolf knew his human was ready, knew they were both semi-hard with need. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, wanting to commit this one moment - all the emotions of this one moment - to his mutant memory forevermore. And as he and his human got lost in kissing, sucking, nibbling, touching, fondling, stroking, caressing each other, their skins becoming increasingly flushed and their breaths coming faster and faster, their bodies eager to reach the climax, he knew that neither he nor Jaskier would ever be able to forget this one night - their very first night together - the first of many, many, many more to come - loving each other, exploring each other, discovering each other, memorizing each other.

"Jask, wait", Geralt stopped suddenly in his loving ministrations directed upon his pliant beloved's moaning, writhing body, and Jaskier's hooded, lustful eyes immediately widened in worry.

"Geralt, do you wish to stop, darling?"

"No. No, it's not that. I ...", Geralt cursed himself, for he was not good with words, "I want you to know that I completely, utterly, unreservedly trust you."

Jaskier felt like his heart swelled impossibly more, as he lovingly stroked his sweating, panting lover's beautiful face.

"I know, dear heart. I am ever grateful for that, Geralt."

"And ... and as a mark of that trust, I ... I want _you_ to take _me_ , before I ... you know...", Geralt slightly stammered, his face colouring.

_Jaskier didn't know how he was supposed to receive - to hold within his small body - all the love and trust the Witcher was so freely, so eagerly giving him._

"You want me to..."

"Y-yes. Breach me first ... if you want? Would you? Would you want to enter me, first?"

Geralt's eyes had dipped down, a tiny frown of doubt gracing his forehead, and the bard thought his Wolf couldn't look any more endearing.

"It's just that ... I want to ... I want to lay myself bare to you. Completely. For decades, I have been unable to trust anyone. Anyone at all. Not even in the slightest. And then ... and then you came along, and you showed me how to trust again, how to hope again ... how to ..."

The Wolf leaned forward and rested his head on his bard's bare chest, breathing in the sweet chamomile scent, letting the thicket of hair on Jaskier's chest tickle the side of his face as the human's arms instinctively tightened around him, drawing him closer.

"I want to be completely vulnerable to you. Completely open up, Jask. I wish to lie underneath you, give in to your love, and know that I am - my heart is - totally safe in your hands, in your arms, in you."

The Witcher suddenly heard a muffled sob from above him, and hurriedly raised his head to find his darling mate crying, lips trembling like autumn leaves.

"Jask, what..."

"No no, don't worry! It's just that ... for such a long time, I have been in love with you, Geralt. I have dreamed of completely surrendering to you, to offer you my bleeding heart, so to speak", the bard chuckled tearfully and hiccuped, "All this time, just aching to tell you that I am yours. That I belong to you. That whether you love me back or not, all I ask for is that you let me shower my love upon you. And now you..."

"And now _I_ submit to _your_ love, my Beloved", Geralt said, completely honest, humble and pliant, "Will you have me? Will you make me yours?"

"Yes. And will you make me yours, afterwards?"

"I cannot wait to."

****************************************************************************

The winter months would have seemed unbearably long and bleak and dreary, as they had all these past years of Jaskier's life, had it not been for the fact that he was in Kaer Morhen, surrounded by noble, valiant, enigmatic Witchers with heroic tales to share, and more often than not in the arms of the love of his life.

_In the arms of the man he knew he was truly married to for life, deep inside his heart._

Kaer Morhen boasted of housing one of the Continent's largest, most well-stocked, most ancient libraries, filled with diverse, archaic collections and tomes on history, especially the history of the evolution of mutants, the chemistry involved in the mutating procedures, of mythology and tales of kings and queens, sorcerers and mages so old that their legends had become lost in the depths of time. And on his second day in the stronghold, Vesemir, the oldest surviving Witcher, had taken one look at the bard and with a knowing smile, introduced him to the great cavernous halls of the library wing.

Which meant that pretty much all day every day, the bard could be found sitting in the library, nose buried in the yellowed pages of old books and scrolls, some almost falling apart due to their great age, pouring over texts and treatises, furiously taking notes, lost in his research. And most days, Geralt or Eskel or one of the other Witchers of the Wolf School had to drag the mildly protesting bard out of the library in order to make sure he didn't forsake eating his meals.

It took the human - the unfailingly kind, incredibly affable, excited, cheerful, talkative and utterly trusting bard - less than two days to wrap every single Witcher in the keep around his little finger. Every single brooding mutant now indulged Jaskier's every demand (though he made few demands to begin with, except for the stories), begging him to sing and play for them after dinner when they all gathered in the great main hall - more than two hundred Witchers around a roaring fire - and they would all join in the chorus, swaying, sometimes even dancing alongside their prancing bard.

But nothing would lift Jaskier's heart as much as when he saw Geralt of Rivia's eyes sparkle in pride and affection, the open smile adorning his beautiful, handsome, darling face, and the way the White Wolf absolutely preened as he introduced Jaskier as his mate, as his Beloved.

***********************************************************************************

Colossal, impossibly deep snow drifts lay all around the stronghold, entirely burying the yards and training grounds within the outer ramparts of the keep under several feet of snow, making it impossible to even open the doors of the lowest two stories. For the last several weeks, snow had fallen relentlessly from fat grey clouds that hung low in the sky (often rubbing shoulders with Kaer Morhen's tallest bastions), and a bone-chilling wind had howled ceaselessly, as if some ancient lord of storms and tempests had been trying to shake the very foundations of the fortress with his might.

This morning had dawned surprisingly clear, with the dense, threatening, roiling cloud-cover tattered in shreds, and pale, watery sunlight filtering through. The wind had died down, with only occasional gusts bringing small flurries of snow. The entire landscape looked surreal, with the pure, unblemished, immaculate white of the snow glittering in the daylight as if strewn with a million diamonds.

Jaskier leaned over the balustrade of their balcony ( _their_ balcony - _their_ room - since he had moved in with Geralt that very first night) overlooking the snow drifts, his eyes wide with wonder and joy.

"Geralt! This looks amazing!"

"The snow? The frigging snow looks amazing? I can't even go out and practice my swords, and once the blizzards abate, we have to go and shovel all that goddamned snow, or Vesemir will yell till our ears fall off. And you think it's amazing?"

"Oh totally", Jaskier grinned at his mate devilishly, "In fact, I have a mind to go down there and walk around in it now!"

"Jaskier, don't you dare", Geralt's eyes flashed in anger as he warned his human, voice clouded with worry and anxiety.

Jaskier walked to his White Wolf, and cradled the pouting, frowning face of his Beloved in his hands, pressing a loving kiss on that proud nose, "Muaah! I love you so much ... do you know what a dear heart you look when you get mad at me?"

"Jasky", Geralt sighed, pulling his bard closer and catching his lips in a tender kiss, "I get worried for you, darling. You are way too reckless, Beloved. It's too cold out there, and that snow is too deep ..."

"Come with me! Come!", and just like that, Jaskier gripped his White Wolf's wrist and steered him towards the door, and the mighty Witcher - who had more than enough strength to not move an inch as his dear human tried to pull him - allowed himself to be dragged outside, unable to help the swell of warmth in his heart.

A few minutes later, Jaskier was running - well, more like wading as fast as he could - through snow that came up to his waist, giggling maniacally with his arms flailing and his head thrown back in euphoric excitement, and fifty younger Witchers, including Geralt, Eskel and Lambert, following suit.

And soon, the snow-enveloped training yard was converted into a temporary battleground, as Witchers and human alike were pelted with giant snow-balls knocking them in their heads and chests or slamming straight onto their faces. The contenders yipped, jumped, ran around, chased each other, tickled each other and tackled opponents to the snow, tumbled over themselves and rolled in the snow, laughing hysterically, and generally behaving like a bunch of unruly five-year-olds.

That is, until Vesemir showed up on the scene.

The senior-most Witcher stood in the open doorway, surveying the cackling, whooping, raucous crowd solemnly, and it took just a few seconds for the Witchers to sense his presence and sober up.

They all stopped their antics and stood up, brushing snow off their coats and breeches but forgetting that powdery snow still clung to their hairs and faces, making them look ridiculous. And every last one of them looked utterly penitent as they stood in a single file in front of their esteemed teacher - their revered father - with eyes downcast.

But Jaskier was no Witcher, and Vesemir, who practically doted on the bard, did _not_ intimidate him. 

And so, before a mortified Geralt could call his mate back - could stop him - Jaskier had picked up an armload of snow, mashed them into a ball, and sent it flying straight ahead ...

... to strike Vesemir square in the chest, smattering his face with bits of snow.

The old, venerated Witcher stood perfectly still for a full minute, petrified, expression incredulous, and Jaskier thought he could hear the thunderous heartbeats of every single Witcher who stood gaping, horrified, next to him.

Then, with a battle-cry, Vesemir charged forward, shouting:

"Wait till I get my hands on you, you sly little minx!"

And now, there were fifty-one Witchers and one human, engaged in a fierce snowball fight.

At one point, when even the Witchers had started to feel weary, Geralt grabbed Jaskier's hand and veered towards where the training yard tapered off, turning a corner.

"Where are we going?", asked a still giddy, bouncing Jaskier.

"I want to show you something. Something only we Witchers of the Wolf School know of."

They trudged and waded ponderously through the now even deeper drifts of snow that came up to their chests, holding tightly on to each other for support. They eventually reached the north-eastern corner of the keep, and Geralt pointed ahead.

"You can't see it now because of the snow cover, but there is a very narrow crack in the rampart there - barely enough to let a single person wriggle through."

"Oh, really? But there's no trail that leads up here, right? I mean, you said the only way to reach Kaer Morhen is to hike up the Witcher's Trail."

"Well, it's not entirely true, and I hate keeping things from you. There is this one other trail - an extremely closely guarded secret among us. This trail is dangerous, remarkably narrow and treacherous - covered in loose shale in places, nearly vertical in others - and the entirety of it lies in a densely forested strip."

"Wow!"

"But it _can_ be accessed. You have to have the requisite skills, and the nerve. Very few in the Continent would be up for that task."

"Have you ever...?"

"Oh yeah!", Geralt said, and Jaskier just marveled at how drop-dead gorgeous his White Wolf looked when he grinned openly, in excitement and carefree joy, like that, "So many times! Eskel and Lambert and I. No one else knew. Especially not Vesemir - he would have boxed our ears and made us do extra laps as a punishment!"

Jaskier started laughing, and Geralt joined him.

"Yeah! Yeah, those were such good times ...", Geralt mused fondly, "We used to challenge each other in racing down that trail."

"Geralt, that sounds dangerous, Beloved!"

Geralt turned to his human worriedly watching him, and his heart melted.

"I am here, and I won't ever engage in such tomfoolery again, Beloved", he swore, crossing his heart, "I have now my mate to take care of. To belong to, to come home to. No time for such idiocy."

Jaskier just shuffled closer and wrapped himself around his partner in a tight hug. They stood there contentedly, holding each other close, not minding that their bodies had started to become numb despite the many layers of fur and fur-lined boots that protected them from the cold and the snow.

After a while, Jaskier asked, "If it's such a closely guarded secret, why did you show it to me, Geralt?"

Geralt looked down at his mate with the expression of someone who had been asked whether the sun rises in the east or not. 

"Well, because you have a right to know, weird human! Once Vesemir handfasts and marries us, Jasky, this will be your home. At least during winter. And you should know whatever there is to know of your future home, future husband!"

**********************************************************************************

On their last day in Kaer Morhen (until the next winter), Vesemir held the handfasting ceremony of Geralt of Rivia and Jaskier the Bard, witnessed by two hundred Witchers of the School of the Wolf.

Jaskier was dressed in a pair of close-fitting trousers and a baggy shirt with fluffy sleeves, all painstakingly hand-knitted by Gwen, a lively young Witcher known for his enthusiasm and sartorial skills. The trousers were of a deep amber-orange silk, with silver embroidery on them, and the shirt was of supple white silk embroidered with gold threads. Osbert, a Witcher who had become fast friends with the bard, had dabbed a hint of rouge on his pale cheeks, applied kohl to his eyes, and smeared his lips with dried rose petals soaked in water, to make them look even rosier than usual. Vesemir himself had placed a delicately crafted, slim but intricate tiara of silver and moonstones upon Jaskier's carefully combed chestnut-brown hair.

Geralt was dressed in figure-hugging trousers of velvety chestnut-brown that slightly widened around his ankles, and a snug full-sleeved silk shirt of vibrant cornflower-blue embroidered in silver threads, both garments accentuating his toned physique. Eskel had braided his hair - the lustrous gossamer tresses cascaded down on either side of his face, framing it beautifully, whereas the hair in the middle was combed back, lined on either side by two intricate plaits culminating in the flowing pony tail which was no longer fastened with a black leather cord, but rather with a clip made of gold and studded with sapphires. Rouge and kohl and soaked rose petals had been applied to his face as well, by Rennes, making him look even more staggeringly handsome than usual. 

_Geralt dressed in Jaskier's colours, and Jaskier in Geralt's._

Jaskier had been ushered into the hall upon the arms of Vesemir, who was to act as his guardian until he was married to Geralt, and Geralt had been escorted by his closest Witcher brothers, Lambert and Eskel - acting as his wardens until the day of their marriage. 

Rennes had solemnly stepped forward bearing a tray with two small boxes, their lids open, revealing the little gemstone rings that rested in their cushion-inlaid interiors:

_For Jaskier, a ring sporting a rare, priceless, oval-shaped orange sapphire._

_And for Geralt, a ring set with a heart-shaped sapphire of brilliant, vibrant blue._

"Here we have gathered, on the first day of spring, to witness and celebrate the handfasting of Geralt of Rivia and Jaskier the Bard", began Vesemir in a deep, sombre voice, "If both of you acquiesce to this union, you will each wear the ring presented to you by the other on the little finger of your left hand for one full year. You will not take off the ring unless the circumstances that require you to do so are most dire and fully unavoidable. Precisely one year from now, we will gather here, under the canopy of this hall in Kaer Morhen, one more time, to witness the exchange of marriage vows between the two of you, and to seal this relationship in the enduring bonds of marital bliss for life."

Geralt and Jaskier hung on to every word of the senior Witcher, while at the same time trying to drown themselves in each other's eyes.

"Should there arise any compelling reason for one of you to end this relationship before exchanging the marriage vows, you are allowed to take off your ring and discard it, in full view and knowledge of the other", continued Vesemir.

"Yeah, that won't be necessary", said Lambert in an audible whisper, causing the entire hall to erupt in hushed giggles, and Vesemir to glare at everyone.

"Now, Geralt of Rivia, do you consent to taking Jaskier the Bard as your betrothed? To cherish and love, to long for and worship, to care for and protect with your entire being until the day you win him as your husband?"

And Geralt, without breaking his riveting eye contact with his blushing bard, dipped his head and said, clearly and for everyone to hear, "I do."

"And Jaskier the Bard, do you consent to taking Geralt of Rivia as your betrothed? To cherish and love, to long for and worship, to care for and protect with your entire being until the day you win him as your husband?"

And heart in his mouth, eyes still incredulous and shining with unshed tears, Jaskier swallowed and said, "I do."

"Then I pronounce you two betrothed to each other - bound to each other with the strong, unwavering bonds of love and loyalty - until the day these bonds are made eternal through marriage. You may hold and kiss each other now."

And the whole hall cheered as the two men - blushing, smiling, glowing with happiness - stepped towards each other and embraced, lips locked in a passionate yet delicate, loving kiss.

**********************************************************************************

Jaskier teared up while saying goodbyes to the Witchers of the Wolf School - his brothers now, and people who would die trying to protect him. He hugged each of them tightly, including Vesemir, and the old Wolf patted his head like he were a disconsolate puppy.

"You are coming back here next winter, and after that this will well and truly become your home, Jaskier, and we your family."

"I can't wait to be back, Baba", he said truthfully, addressing Vesemir using the same honorific that Geralt used - an endearing way to call someone "father".

"And you will take good care of my Geralt, son?"

"With my life, Baba."

Letting go of Jaskier with a smile, Vesemir pulled Geralt into his arms.

"Remember that you are no longer alone, and your life is inexorably and irrevocably tied to another. You will stop being reckless and you will start being sensible, yes?"

Geralt bowed his head, even as Eskel and Lambert and a number of other Witchers standing within earshot rolled their eyes and chuckled.

"I swear, Baba."

"And you will take good care of your human, son?"

"I will, with my life, Baba."

"Good."

*************************************************************************************

The duo journeyed for two weeks southward, until they reached the town of Shaerrawedd, on the banks of the river Lixela. Most of the snow had melted away, but the chill remained, and the town seemed only barely beginning to stir from its winter hibernation.

And it was here, in a tavern that Geralt had frequented many times before, that the two of them ran into Yennefer.

_And at the very first meeting, something about the looming, domineering, cold and aloof sorceress had turned Jaskier off._

_And for want of a better phrase to describe the situation, turned Geralt on._

The moment the gold-amber eyes locked onto the uncanny, unnatural, vivid violet ones, it felt like something had clicked in place.

Even Jaskier, who could only look on as an outsider, could sense the tremendous, almost overwhelming pull - a sort of dynamic that neither could fight or resist - that brought these two unfathomably powerful, magic-imbued and magic-wielding beings closer together, hurtling towards each other. 

And it left him feeling numb, cold, alone.

Jaskier - or Julian - had never felt jealousy before. He had never been in a circumstance that made him feel that way. And what he felt now towards Yennefer was not exactly jealousy either.

It was more a crippling fear, a premonition, pain and a weird sort of suffocating conviction that this sorceress had appeared like a comet in their lives to change his destiny forever. To change the path that his and Geralt's lives would have taken otherwise. And that Jaskier - simple, silly, only-too-human Jaskier - had absolutely no power whatsoever in negating her impact on their lives.

They stayed ten full days in Shaerrawedd.

Eight more than the time Geralt had needed to finish his assignment of slaying the infestation of frighteners around the town.

Yennefer graciously hosted Geralt (and Jaskier as a sort of side baggage, judging by the way she stared down her nose at him) during their stay, and her invitation had brought a dazzling smile to Geralt's usually dour face - the like of which Jaskier had never seen before - and bowing down, the Witcher had kissed the knuckles of her gloved hand, all the while staring, mesmerized, into her violet orbs.

_And something had shattered inside Jaskier._

_Jaskier, who was Geralt's betrothed._

_Jaskier, who stood forgotten and forlorn behind the Witcher, as the Witcher drank in the image of the sorceress in front of him._

Every single night of their stay in Shaerrawedd, Geralt had gone to bed early, mumbling something like "Too tired, baby, let's go to sleep early tonight", never once touching Jaskier who lay next to his Beloved, his eyes filling with tears as he watched the Witcher fall asleep.

And every night, Jaskier had woken from some recurring nightmare in the darkest hours to find ...

_... to find Geralt gone ..._

_... the space next to Jaskier's on the bed cold and empty ..._

_... the room locked from the outside, making it impossible for him to go in search of his White Wolf._

And this was not even the worst part.

Of course, this twisted Jaskier's heart in an unbearable agony that made him whimper and cry himself to sleep, but what absolutely broke him...

_... was the way Geralt totally, utterly, shut him out._

Every time Jaskier had bolstered himself for a conversation with Geralt, the Witcher - now almost continually absentminded and his eyes holding a distant gaze - had ignored his questions, waved him away claiming to be busy, or brusquely dismissed him. Grunted at him, offered monosyllabic and reluctant replies, occasionally barked sharp, annoyed reprimands:

"Oh come on, Jaskier, I told you - nothing's wrong! I went out for patrolling the outskirts every night. That's all! Stop being so whiny and jealous and puerile! Stop acting like a teenager! Grow up, for Melitele's sake, and stop being so clingy!"

And Jaskier - sweet, sensitive, loving, almost motherly Jaskier - had flinched as if scalded, and recoiled.

Jaskier had seen Yennefer and Geralt take a stroll in the garden around the palatial mansion the sorceress dwelt in, their powerful, lithe frames so much in sync with each other as they moved - no, nearly glided - across the cobbled paths, their hands touching, eyes locked onto each other and adoring, engaged in deep conversations about magic and might that Jaskier didn't know the first thing about.

Jaskier had seen them lean on each other, Geralt resting his head on her shoulder, while they sat on that bench underneath the crab-apple tree.

Jaskier's shoulders had slumped in defeat, his entire being doused in all-engulfing, mind-numbing anguish and a sense of loss, his heart telling him over and over again that perhaps this was the beginning of the end.

These ten days, Geralt had barely noticed the existence of Jaskier in the same room or the same house, much less acknowledge him, much less converse with him.

These ten days, Geralt hadn't so much as touched Jaskier's hand, let alone hold him, kiss him, make love to him.

These ten days, Geralt had lived in an entranced, enchanted daze, enamoured in the black-haired, violet-eyed Yennefer, totally lost in her charms and her smile and her intriguing discussions, totally focused on her shocking-red plump lips and her alluring aura.

These ten days, Yennefer had been fiercely possessive and protective of Geralt, not letting him out of her sight, keeping him close.

_Who could tell what Destiny wanted?_

_Who could tell which two people Destiny wanted to see united?_

_And who could tell which unfortunate soul would have his heart broken because Destiny decreed so?_

And so, when, after ten days were over and Geralt and Jaskier set out, Yennefer bidding Geralt a tearful goodbye with a kiss full on his lips right in front of a tiny, shaking, silent, miserable Jaskier who stood hugging himself and averting his eyes, the bard felt that perhaps Destiny just plain hated him.

Abhorred him.

Wanted him to live out his entire life in misery, loneliness and pain.

_And who knows ... may be this was what he deserved?_

_Because who the hell was he anyway?_

_A simpleton - a foolish, capering, nonsensically chattering bard. An idiot with his head in the clouds, wanting to love and be loved by a Witcher. Huh!_

_A frail, weak, unworthy prince - unloved, despised, denounced by his own parents._

_And who was Geralt? The White Wolf of Rivia - the most powerful, most advanced, most competent and revered Witcher there ever was._

_Who was Yennefer? Yennefer of Vengerberg - the most powerful, most erudite, most skilled and masterful sorceress there ever was._

_And not only that..._

_Both Geralt and Yennefer were supremely powerful mutants. Both lived their lives on the line, battling and defeating immensely potent and inimical, magically fueled enemies on a regular basis._

_Both were built powerfully - agile, lithe, graceful, elegant, irresistibly attractive in an almost predatory way._

_And what was Jaskier?_

_A fucking bard who earned his living by writing, composing, singing and playing fucking songs - stupid ballads and useless jigs._

_And what did he look like? A pathetic, weak, thin, fragile, breakable, puny, insignificant, mortal human who needed to be protected, who did not know the first thing about defending himself in a battle._

Who the fuck was Jaskier kidding?

Of course Geralt desired Yennefer. Wanted her to be his partner - his mate - for life.

He _deserved_ Yennefer. Not an unworthy idiot like Jaskier.

And so it was that the prince who had been so painstakingly taught all these years by his loving, fatherly tutor and his doting, motherly nurse not to stop believing that he was worthy and lovable ...

_... for the first time, truly doubted his self-worth, truly hated himself, truly thought of himself as a being who didn't deserve to be - couldn't be - loved._

*******************************************************************************

Geralt left Shaerrawedd in a foul mood.

His heart was torn, a part of it refusing to let go of the sorceress. The sorceress that he could feel in his bones was tied to his destiny, his life. He knew they would meet again, but it didn't make the thought of parting with her, of staying away from her for the time in between any easier to endure.

His confused, addled mind couldn't really tell if what he felt for her was love. He knew it was a magnetic pull, of strength impossible for either him or her to deny and resist, and that when he witnessed her magical prowess, her abilities, her pride, her unwavering determination and her iron will - he was filled with admiration and adoration and an overpowering need to worship her. And she had had as terrible, as damaging a childhood as he - so that was just another aspect of their lives they could relate with each other on, and it brought them even closer together.

And as he brooded for days on end, riding silently on Roach, his heightened Witcher senses were too clouded to notice the small human who rode quietly behind him.

The small human who was made smaller still by the weight of pain and unfulfilled longing and resigned dejection that he carried within himself.

The human who occasionally lifted pain-hazed eyes at the Witcher's ramrod-straight back, hoping to see him turn around and smile at him, acknowledge him, call out to him.

_Oh how long it had been since his Beloved had called out to him, called him "My Jasky" and pulled him close!_

_Oh how he ached! How he longed to be held in those strong arms and be hidden inside the secure confines of that too-warm chest._

_Oh how he yearned to be kissed, to be loved, to give love, to give himself..._

_... give himself to his Witcher even if it was to comfort him and kiss away the look of hurt that his would-be husband bore on his face, even though Jaskier knew it was not for him, but for a breathtakingly beautiful sorceress the Witcher had had to leave behind..._

And thus it was that Geralt of Rivia, under the whims and devious schemes of Destiny herself, remembered and thought only of Yennefer, and forgot his vows to his betrothed, his vows to his Baba, Vesemir...

_... and in some sense, forgot about the hurting, lonely, wretched, despondent betrothed himself._


	6. The Wolf who let go of his mate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was ABSOLUTELY PAINFUL to write, and I hope that it leaves all of you feeling the heartbreak that my Jaskier felt :-) 
> 
> But aside from that, here's something that I want to emphasize (also read my summary of the previous chapter in this regard). Please remember that, although it may not seem that way from this chapter or the previous one: YENNEFER IS NOT A VILLAIN AND GERALT IS NOT A CHARACTERLESS, PROMISCUOUS ASSHOLE. While watching the Netflix series, I could not help but feel that Geralt and Yennefer, while involved in a rather unrealistic, whirlwind romance, were really kind of under the thumbs of Destiny. To me, it seemed like they were Destiny's puppets, and their attraction for each other, rather than being the product of fond hearts, was a magnetic pull that they felt, seeing how similar in terms of their childhood, their immense magical potential and prowess, their danger-courting lifestyles were. 
> 
> This is why, I left things deliberately open to interpretation between Geralt and Yennefer in the last chapter. Yes, they grew close, but almost no sexual intimacy was described. And both of them will prove to be good, kind people as this story goes on.

It was just past sundown, and they had decided to camp in the woods right outside Rinde.

Jaskier sat close to the campfire, giving the last few stirs to the bubbling, thick, luscious bone-broth of the stew he had cooked, simmering chunks of meat and bones from a freshly hunted wild boar with potatoes, carrots and onions along with precious herbs, all purchased by him from the marketplace in Rinde with the generous amount of coins the mayor of a small town had paid him for performing at his daughter's birthday celebrations. And, just to surprise his betrothed with something special, Jaskier was brewing strong coffee, and had even bought milk and honey to go with it.

Once the scrumptious dinner was ready, he brought the big bowl filled with the steaming stew and a mug of milk-coffee sweetened with honey to his brooding, darling Witcher.

Geralt took the proffered food and beverage with not even a glance at his pining Beloved, much less acknowledge him or grunt a word of thanks. 

Jaskier ate his own dinner quietly, a bit slowly, the hopeful smile from a few minutes ago now vanished from his face, and tired, slightly aching, tearful eyes occasionally wandering to where his betrothed sat eating and completely ignoring him.

_Oh, he felt so weary, so lost, so deserted, so utterly alone._

It had been a little over two months since they left Shaerawedd, and Geralt had not spoken more than a handful of words - that too when absolutely necessary - to Jaskier each day. He had just brooded, looking glum and surly, his hands patting nothing but Roach's mane, and his eyes seeing nothing but the path ahead. He only became alert during his intermittent monster-slaying assignments, and during daytime-hunts for fresh meat.

After dinner, the silence deepened between the two partners, until it became absolutely unbearable for the poor, heartbroken bard. He stood up from where he had just finished cleaning and drying the dishes, the utensils and the cook-pot, and timidly walked over to where Geralt perched on a log, his face angled away from Jaskier.

"Beloved?", the call was soft, in a small voice, and a small hand came to rest on the Witcher's arm.

Geralt stirred out of his reverie, the frown still lingering on his face, with a confused "Hmm?".

Jaskier knew there was no point asking Geralt if he was okay. Every time he had made that mistake, he had only succeeded in attracting the Wolf's ire.

"Will you tell me a story, please?", Jaskier's voice automatically became imploring, his eyes trying desperately to make contact with Geralt's gold ones.

"Now is not a good time, Jaskier", the Witcher heaved a sigh, resigned.

Jaskier knew there would be no point trying to coax or coddle the Witcher to tell him what bothered him so (not that he did not know it himself), to open up to him and confide in him all the troubling thoughts inside that snowy head. He knew his Witcher was lost to him - if not permanently, at least far beyond the foreseeable future.

"No worries, dear heart", he lovingly rubbed his Wolf's arm, until the man drew away from his touch as if it made him uncomfortable, and Jaskier tried to blink back tears and swallow past the painful lump in his throat.

_So far you have drifted from me ... too far..._

_So much so that my loving touches that you used to lean into, that you used to crave, now disgust you..._

_So easily you abandoned me - left me behind - Beloved..._

_Because what am I but a weakling, a piteous, wretched, mediocre human with nothing special, nothing noteworthy, nothing lovable, nothing to be cherished about him..._

Jaskier couldn't sit there and take it anymore. 

He stood up shakily. "Goodnight, my darling. Don't stay out too long, and if you need me for anything, please do wake me up." Not expecting and not waiting for any response whatsoever to that, the bard shuffled towards the open flap of their tent.

**************************************************************************

It was very dark outside when Jaskier was roused from his fitful sleep by someone wrapping their arms around him.

For a moment, panic shrouded his groggy mind, as he wondered whether he was being attacked. But then, he realized it was Geralt - his betrothed, his Beloved - who had lain down next to him and encircled him in an embrace, pulling him close so that his back rested against the Witcher's broad and warm chest.

_His White Wolf, who had refused to touch him, or even come close to him, all these weeks._

Jaskier didn't know how to react. It was not like the hurt and the pain and the feeling of rejection, of betrayal that had burrowed a hole into his heart would evaporate all of a sudden. He was still hurting, and would continue to hurt for a long time, even if, miraculously, Geralt forgot about the enticing, beguiling sorceress and chose to come back to Jaskier's arms.

A soft, deep voice sounded close to his ears, and warm breaths made the hair on the back of his head flutter.

"Jasky...", it was a remorseful sigh, "Baby, I'm so sorry. So sorry."

And unbidden, the hot, burning tears streamed down from his eyes as he desperately tried to stifle the sobs trying to push up his throat. 

But of course, it was not easy to hoodwink a Witcher.

Geralt raised himself on his elbow and wriggling a palm underneath Jaskier's tear-streaked face that had been turned away from him, forced the bard to look at him.

"Oh my sweet baby!", Geralt's face crumpled in pain, "Forgive me, light of my heart!".

And before the sobbing, trembling human could respond, his eyes filled with untold hurt and unspoken sorrow looking up at his betrothed, his lips quivering, the Wolf snatched him up in his burly arms, cocooning him in his chest, rocking him back and forth.

"I don't know what came over me, Beloved", he murmured again and again, eyes closed as if praying for whichever god was listening to set things right between the two of them, "I have been such an arse! So ungrateful, so uncaring, so inattentive! I was so ... not myself, my - my husband! Forgive me, oh baby, forgive me..."

And just as the advent of the spring sunshine melts the glaciers high up on the mountains, so Geralt's open, honest confession and his warm, unrelenting embrace and the kisses he persistently planted on top of his hurting Beloved's head melted the frigid glacier of pain, rejection and betrayal that had gradually accumulated in Jaskier's poor heart.

The bard wrapped his slim arms around Geralt, rubbing soothing circles on his back, and replied, hiccuping, "It's okay, dear heart. It's alright, my boo, my darling husband. I am here, right here. Always here for you."

They stayed in each other's arms like that, both weeping, both breathing heavily, both broken and both hoping that they were not past mending, not past the point of no return.

And then, they heard it. Geralt's enhanced hearing first, then Jaskier's ears too.

The thud of hooves. Several of them.

Quite a few riders galloping towards their tent.

"Baby, stay here", Geralt growled, instantly protective of his human, "Don't come out until I tell you it is safe to." And with that, he slid out of the embrace, planted a quick peck on the forehead of his sweet, loving betrothed before padding out of the tent, the two swords unsheathed and ready in his hands.

From inside the tent flap, Jaskier peered outside, and saw three shadowy, cloaked figures on horseback come to a halt right in front of the campfire, and immediately hop down.

"Geralt!"

"Eskel! Lambert!"

And that had Jaskier immediately scramble out of the tent.

"Jaskier!"

"Eskel!"

The bard squealed in glee and ran forward, slamming into the chest of the tall, golden-haired, gently smiling Witcher.

"Good to see you too, little lark!", Eskel chimed, picking Jaskier up and twirling him around, making him giggle.

Lambert strode forward and roughly pulled Geralt into a bone-crushing hug, and Geralt did not miss the worry that darkened his countenance.

"Lambert!", trilled Jaskier, running to the older Witcher and burrowing himself into his chest. Lambert squeezed the human tight in his arms, muttering, "I am glad that you two are safe, Geralt, Jaskier."

Geralt raised his troubled face to his brother, "Lambert, what's the matter? What's going on?"

"Witchers are being persecuted, and you are being pursued", answered the third rider who had so far stood concealed in the dark, throwing back her hood and revealing herself.

"Yennefer!", Geralt breathed as if that name was some sort of prayer offered to a goddess of sublime, ethereal beauty.

And just like that, Jaskier's heart, suffused with relief at having Geralt back in his arms, joy at being held by his Beloved, and happiness at being reunited with his two Witcher brothers, dimmed; the glow of hope and love flickered and went out of his entire being.

_She was back._

_And Geralt was back under her inexorable, intoxicating charm._

_Geralt was lost to Jaskier._

The bard shrank into the background, automatically making himself scarce, softly slinking back towards the tent, hidden from the three Witchers whose eyes were intently and entirely focused on the speaking sorceress.

"A number of rulers are raising a rebel army against the Witchers. The most notable among these are the kings and queens of Red Port, Scala, Spalla, Hawkesburn and Dravograd in South Lyria and North Angren, Aldersberg, Eisenlaan and Upper Posada in Aedirn, and some minor kingdoms in South-eastern Temeria. And assassins are being deployed, to hunt down Witchers daring to go anywhere close to these regions."

Jaskier couldn't help the sharp breath he inhaled at the mention of Aldersberg and Eisenlaan, and whereas neither Witcher paid it any mind, the sorceress' keen, hawk-like eyes did not miss it, and she almost imperceptibly turned towards him, pinning him with a gaze full of suspicion.

"But it would have been one thing to assault Witchers when they came close to the kingdoms ruled by these fucking fanatics", spat Lambert, his expression livid, veins pulsing in his temple, "Another to send assassins and an army to invade Kaer Morhen."

"WHAT?!"

Geralt's enraged roar reverberated through the woods.

Eskel put a calming hand on Geralt's shoulder.

"Yes, Geralt. These rabble-rousing rulers joined their forces, sending a formidable army to lay siege to Kaer Morhen. But what was much, much more scary and disturbing was that, this was merely a diversion - a decoy. It was a ploy meant to lure us into engaging the army in battle, to keep our attention occupied while..."

"While what, Eskel?", Geralt urged, shaking his brother by the shoulder.

"While they sent assassins up the Secret Stair."

"WHAT?!", Geralt was nearly shaking now, and Jaskier could tell his mind was a mess, and he so badly yearned to take his betrothed in his arms and soothe him.

"How did they know? How could they know?"

"We don't know, Geralt", Lambert admitted quietly, "I do not believe for one moment any of our brothers ratted out this information. The enemy must have been keeping a close watch. Somehow, they found out."

"Was anyone hurt? Was anyone..."

"No, don't worry", Eskel replied quickly, trying to soothe the agitated White Wolf, "Many got hurt, including Vesemir, but everyone is recovering. And all the assassins were slain."

"But this thing is far from over", proclaimed the sorceress, completely unruffled and serene as ever, "And Witchers are not safe anywhere by themselves. Almost all of my brothers and sisters - sorcerers and sorceresses - I have already been in touch with, and they are rallying together to support all of you. Myself included, of course. And when faced with our combined might, these petty, squabbling human rulers and their forces will scatter like dust", she finished, the very picture of confidence.

"Yen", Geralt's voice was deep, full of gratitude, affection and utter respect, "Thank you, Yen. Thank you so much!"

"It was she who helped us locate you. You are one of the most notable Witchers, Geralt, and these vengeful zealots are especially eager to eliminate you. She said we must find you, and make sure you are okay."

"And make sure you are not alone", said Yennefer, her eyes briefly drifting to the timid little bard now kneeling by the tent, with a sardonic, contemptuous smile, "And that you are not camping outdoors in the middle of the night. You are especially vulnerable here. We must all journey to the city centre, and find a nice, well-lit and well-guarded inn to board in. At least for tonight. Tomorrow, we shall come up with a new plan - whether to return to Kaer Morhen and fight from the security of the mountain stronghold is an issue we still have to debate."

*******************************************************************************

They checked into a reputed inn in the middle of the town-square, in Rinde. It had taken them a mere couple of hours to break camp, pack everything up, and then ride like the wind, leaving behind the dark woods that could potentially allow unseen foes to lurk, to reach the well-lit and most densely inhabited area of the city.

Geralt had looked incredulous, and uncharacteristically dismayed and perturbed the entire way, not speaking to Jaskier, but paying heed to snippets of news from Eskel, Lambert and Yennefer. His jaws were set, and his eyes burned like fire in the night, and Jaskier knew a storm was raging through his betrothed's mind.

Now, Jaskier was alone in the room he was supposed to share with Geralt, whereas his four companions were cooped up in the room next to his, their heads together, deep in discussion about how to proceed in handling this conspiracy and rebellion against the Witchers.

"I just don't understand", Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose as he sat with his elbows on the table, "How could anyone know? If the knowledge about the Secret Stair has leaked out, then Kaer Morhen is in a terribly vulnerable position right now. Anyone able to climb the Stair would be able to breach the fortress... which means ... which means..."

A warm hand was placed on top of his own upon the table, and Yennefer's violet eyes stared intently, and with unfaltering reassurance, at his own gold ones, "Geralt, it won't be that easy. Please, breathe! Your Witcher family is safe, and we - all of us - will together make sure of that."

And the White Wolf allowed himself to believe her, to drown in those violet eyes, to drown in the feel of that soft and delicate hand - that he knew full well could wield enough magical power to subdue all three Witchers in the room simultaneously - caressing his own calloused hand. And his breaths became somewhat easier, though none of the Witchers looked any less disconcerted.

"Now", the sorceress removed her hand and Geralt immediately missed the contact, "We have to discuss a few things. First, the issue of how the secret got divulged, and making sure the damage done is reversed. Second, whether we should strike straight for Kaer Morhen from here, and try to gather all the Witchers, whether of Wolf School or not, that we can locate on our way. Third, we have to somehow send out a summons to every Witcher who is currently wandering far from the stronghold..."

"But", Lambert interrupted her, his usual menacing scowl now replaced by a thoroughly disgruntled expression, "Who could it be? None of our brothers would ever do anything of this sort... we are sworn to protect our home..."

Yennefer turned her piercing gaze upon each of the Witchers. "And you three are sure you told no one outside of Kaer Morhen about this?"

"Of course!", chimed Eskel and Lambert in unison.

"I briefly mentioned it to Jaskier", admitted Geralt, and Eskel shrugged and said, "Well, of course! He is your mate and our human brother! That's not the poi..."

Yennefer looked up so suddenly, the Witchers were worried if she would sustain a whiplash. Her eyes were narrowed, and they blazed with an eerie light as she regarded Geralt.

"Is it alright if I talk to your mate in private, Geralt?"

The White Wolf stared at the sorceress, his mind momentarily going blank.

"Talk to... Jaskier?"

"Yes. It's urgent. May I?", Yennefer's voice was brusque, and although it was supposed to be a question, the tone was one that _demanded_ that Geralt didn't demur.

"S-sure. He is in the next room."

And without another word or a single glance at the slightly taken aback Witchers, Yennefer of Vangerberg swept out of the room in a rustle of skirts.

********************************************************************************

Jaskier had been sitting huddled on the bed, with his blankets drawn close around him. He couldn't sleep, and he didn't know whether, if and when Geralt came back, he would be the Witcher Jaskier became engaged to, or the Witcher who fell hopelessly for the sorceress in Shaerrawedd. And the fear of being spurned, being deserted yet again clawed at his poor heart.

A soft knock sounded on the door, and Jaskier called out.

"Geralt? Sweetheart? Coming, hold on."

He hurried to the door, hoping against hope that within the next few seconds, he would be in his Beloved's arms.

And opening it, came face to face with Yennefer.

"Oh, uh, sorry, I..."

But before Jaskier was done stammering, the sorceress, without once asking for his permission, without any warning, without uttering a single word, placed her hands on his temples.

Jaskier flinched violently, and tried to step back, feeling angry and violated, but the sorceress was far, far stronger than the human, and her sheer strength kept him rooted to the spot, terrified but unable to speak a word of protest.

And a few seconds later, Yennefer dropped her hands, and opened her eyes, to stare at Jaskier.

This time, Jaskier did step back, and his indignation was instantly replaced by mind-numbing fear.

_He had never seen anyone, his abusive parents included, so feral, so openly savage. Never seen anyone whose eyes shone with such vengeance, such cruel, blinding rage._

"You dared!", the sorceress breathed, "You dared to do this to my Geralt - to my dearest Geralt."

And before Jaskier could recover from his stunned, terrified state, the sorceress turned around with a swish of her skirts and stormed back to the next room, the door closing with a slam.

**********************************************************************************

It seemed to Jaskier that it had been only a few minutes before the door to his and Geralt's room flew open on its hinges.

Jaskier had still been standing, bewildered and confused, in the middle of the room. He winced at the sound, and looked up to find ...

_... Geralt stride into the room, his stance that of a leopard approaching a cornered baby deer._

And for the first time in all his life, for the first time since they had met ...

_Jaskier felt afraid of Geralt._

It was such an alien, such a foreign feeling that Jaskier himself was initially confounded by it. But then, as his eyes locked with his betrothed's, and he saw the inferno of sheer malevolence that burned in those golden orbs, he knew it was not something he was imagining.

_Not the slightest trace of love in those eyes. Not the merest hint of trust._

_Not the faintest sign of endearment, of fondness, of tenderness._

_Just hatred. Pure, unadulterated, unmistakable hatred._

_Abhorrence. Disgust. Fury that made those beautiful, beloved amber eyes look like pools of bubbling magma._

Jaskier felt like someone had punched him in the gut, knocking all air out of him. His knees gave out, and he slid down to the ground, oblivious to how his back got scraped by the stone wall behind him.

But his eyes remained glued to the face of his darling White Wolf - his mind unable to tear them away from that dear face, despite how unfamiliar, how stony, how cruel that face seemed right now - all hard edges and sharp angles, warped in rage, eyes burning like cinders. 

"Hello, Jaskier", the voice that reached the diminished, almost prone human was like the hiss of a snake poised to strike.

The Witcher crouched down in front of his human.

"I thought you said you got that little tattoo beneath your navel done because you like falcons, hmm?"

"Y-yes. Wh-why, Beloved?", Jaskier stammered.

"Are you sure it has nothing to do with the falcons on the flag of Aldersberg?"

Jaskier gasped. His heart nearly stuttered to a stop.

"Geralt...", the bard whispered, reaching out to touch his betrothed's hand, eyes beseeching. 

"If you touch me, I will break that hand", Geralt delivered the threat without raising his voice in the slightest, and Jaskier's hand jerked to a stop midway, his frame going rigid with shock and pain.

"I trusted you", the Wolf continued, his voice cutting into Jaskier's heart like a saw, "I trusted you with my entire being. Trusted you with the knowledge of the Secret Stair of Kaer Morhen. And you..."

"Geralt", Jaskier's voice broke, his face crumpled in anguish, "I wanted to tell you. Please, Beloved ... I was so afraid that you would hate me ... hate me just because I am a prince..."

"Oh I do", the Witcher snarled, his head tilted, his face contorted in a feral grimace, "I _abhor_ the vile, atrocious, repugnant snake that you are, Prince Julian!"

Jaskier was panting like a wounded animal now, his eyes staring up at Geralt through a haze of pain as his lips started to wobble.

"I have been such a fool! Trusted you, loved you, thought you my destiny", Geralt's own eyes shone moistly now, and the grimace on his face became laced with pain, "If only I hadn't shown you the Secret Stair ... if only I had guessed you are a spying, lying, rotten-to-the-core, royal spawn! The fucking, ignoble, depraved son of the corrupt bitch ruling Aldersberg!"

"Geralt!", the plea came out as a low, broken wail, and Jaskier's body began to shake uncontrollably as tears spilled forth from his eyes, "I am not a spy. I am _not_ , Beloved! I fled ... I fled the royal palace because my parents, my sister - everyone abused me. Hurt me. Whipped me. Locked me up in my chambers. I escaped right before my handfasting to Prince Azazor of Eisenlaan. And I disguised myself as a bard..."

"Abused you? Whipped you?", Geralt scoffed, his lips curling up in a sneer, "Please don't insult my intelligence, o mighty Prince! I bedded you", he spat on the floor as if the phrase left a repulsive taste in his mouth, and Jaskier whimpered in pain, "I bedded you more times than I care to count, you motherfucking traitor! And I have yet to see a single scratch, a single scar on that pretty body of yours!"

And with his stomach sinking with a leaden weight, Jaskier cursed himself for having used the ointment offered to him by Maithili.

"I used an ointment, the one Maithili tried to sell you, Geralt", he scrambled to explain, his hands now extended towards the seething, leering Witcher in a pleading gesture, "I tried to make the scars disappear, Geralt. I wanted to be rid of the memories of all the abuse I faced."

"You really do possess a silver tongue, don't you, Prince Julian? Spinning lies that fast, hmm?"

"Sweetheart, please", Jaskier sobbed, his body aching to be held by his Beloved, pain surging through every nerve, "I beg you. Please believe me. I never betrayed you. I never, ever told anyone about the Secret Stair. I have no contact with any royalty. And I love you. I love you so much, Geralt! I would never, ever betray you, my darling, please!"

"Do you know what I ought to do to you, you dishonourable, sick, revolting monster?", Geralt's face moved close to Jaskier's tear-soaked one, his razor-sharp words slicing through the whimpering, inconsolably sobbing human's lovesick heart, his tone dripping venom that seared his betrothed, "I ought to slit your throat. Make you bleed to your ignominious, and deserving, death, you bastard! Because of you, my Baba is wounded! My Baba, who regarded you as his own son! We loved you, and you betrayed us, you fucking _snake_!"

Jaskier didn't know how he was supposed to tolerate, to endure all the blows he was being pummeled with by the very person he hoped and wished to spend his life with - his beloved, precious future husband. But he knew he had to keep trying. He knew that he would be devastated if he lost Geralt.

"Geralt, I really didn't! I cannot prove it to you, dear heart, but you have known me all this time! You _know_ who I am, Beloved! I fled Aldersberg to leave behind my royal identity because I _hated_ it! Because my family treated me like a subhuman. I fled because if I had been married off to Azazor, he would have ... he would have raped me, Geralt! Raped and tortured your Jasky, dear heart! This past year, I have striven to be my own man, make my own decisions, live life as I choose to. Not as they dictated. That's who I am! I am your bard, I am _your_ Jaskier, I am your _betrothed_ , Geralt!"

And that had Geralt let out a singularly humourless laughter that sounded so cruel and utterly disgusted that Jaskier nearly keeled over in pain.

"My betrothed? _My betrothed_? You? A fucking, vile, treasonous scoundrel? A sick bastard?"

_And in one swift motion, the White Wolf of Rivia slid his betrothal ring - the ring that had marked his unfailing love and loyalty, his hand promised in marriage, to Jaskier the Bard - off his little finger and flung it away, making the little thing skitter across the floor._

"Geralt...", Jaskier breathed, his lungs struggling to draw breath, his heart wanting to give up its beating, "Please, don't leave me, Beloved. You are my everything...", he forced himself to speak, even though all that his body wanted to do was completely shut down, "You are my life, Geralt. If you leave..."

"You will die?", the Witcher said testily, his head tilted and his face split in a cynical, mirthless smile full of hatred and revulsion, "I certainly hope so, Julian. Because the world will be a _much_ better place if a monster such as yourself ceased to exist."

_Jaskier felt like someone had reached into his rib-cage, taken his heart in an iron-hard fist, and crushed it. Crushed it beyond all recovery._

"If life could give me one blessing - after the curse of meeting you, trusting you, falling for you, you shameless, spineless son of a bitch - it would be to remove you from my sight, from my existence, forevermore. To cleanse my life of your foul, noxious, toxic presence, Julian. To make sure I never have to set my eyes on your face again, you serpent!"

Jaskier couldn't look into those amber eyes anymore, filled as they were with fathomless hatred and malice towards him. His body automatically curled into a fetal position, his head cocooned in his arms, face hidden, breaths laboured and every cell of his body languishing in a pain so unbearable, so endless, so all-consuming that his mind just couldn't function, couldn't process it anymore.

And just before darkness took him, Jaskier the Bard heard the door slam behind the retreating footsteps of his Beloved - the dearest, most important, most _needed_ person in his life - leaving him behind, never to return.

****************************************************************************

When Jaskier came to, dawn was breaking outside.

At first, his sleep-dazed mind could not quite recall why he felt like a crushing weight had settled upon his chest, why his head throbbed in excruciating pain, why he felt so sore and so utterly fatigued all over. But the bliss of forgetfulness lasted for just a few seconds.

And the moment he remembered, his body reacted. He barely had time to raise his head before his stomach heaved, and he emptied the contents of last night's dinner onto the floor next to him.

And even as the last of the vomit left his mouth, leaving a stale, nauseatingly sour taste on his tongue, the tears came, and the briny taste of their tracks mingled with the sour taste on his lips.

_Geralt..._

_My Beloved, my dear heart, the love of my life, the meaning to my existence..._

_Don't leave! Please, don't leave me!_

_Please, I love you so much! I love you so, so, so much, my darling..._

He knew he had to try. Make one last, desperate attempt to stop Geralt from leaving without him.

With herculean effort, the feeble human pushed himself to a sitting position, and from there, a shakily standing position. Picking up the ring that lay discarded at one corner of the room, he put it inside his trouser pocket. Summoning the last ounce of strength, he staggered forward.

He found them in the stable. Almost ready to leave.

And before he could shuffle up to Geralt, whose back was turned to him as he adjusted Roach's saddlebag, a gauntleted arm was thrown, barring his way.

"Don't you dare", and Jaskier felt ill remembering how, even half a day back, he would not have suspected for one moment that Lambert's menace would be directed his way, "You broke my little brother once. You will never touch him again, you motherfucking bastard of a prince!"

The remaining three people had now turned towards them, with Geralt's eyes scorching, blistering holes into Jaskier's trembling body.

"Lambert, brother, I would never...", Jaskier choked, "I would never hurt him. I would never betray him. I _love_ him! I never betrayed any of you. Please, Eskel, please believe me... Geralt..."

Geralt spat on the hay-covered floor of the stable and turned away, and Yennefer threw the bard a look of deepest loathing before going to stand next to the White Wolf, a comforting hand on his back.

Eskel, though, did not turn away. 

Striding forward, he put a hand on Lambert's arm, "Lambert, brother, I can take it from here."

"Eskel", Lambert warned, his face dour.

"Trust me. I've got this."

Lambert let go with a grunt and a glare enough to burn Jaskier into ashes, and Eskel took his place.

"Walk with me, prince."

"Jaskier, Eskel. I ... I truly am Jaskier. Not Julian."

"Be that as it may, you are now Prince Julian for us. Nothing more."

_Nothing more._

Jaskier felt empty. 

Nonetheless, he followed the Witcher out.

"You really should find your way back home, Prince Julian. We have spared you your life, although we really ought not. But we cannot speak for other Witcher brothers who will eventually come to know of your traitorous act."

The words were spoken in a calm voice, without any apparent heat, and each of them slashed at Jaskier's already tattered heart like a wickedly sharp scimitar.

And the poor, poor human broke down right there, in front of Eskel, his body collapsing, strangled sobs wracking his slight frame.

"I didn't, Eskel, I didn't", his voice sounded like a lament, "I am not a traitor. I just love him ... love him with all of my being. And he is ... he is letting go. My husband is abandoning me. He is walking away. I love him sooo much, Eskel. He won't listen. His stone heart won't melt. I love him, I love him, I love him..."

He lost his voice for a little while, fresh sobs smothering him. His eyes were blurred with tears, and he didn't even know if Eskel still stood there. All of his faculty, his senses seemed focused on chanting that one mantra : "I love him, I love him, I love him", and they really couldn't see or hear or feel anything else.

"I never, ever betrayed him. I would die before I betray him. Before I hurt him."

_I love him. I love him. I love him._

_I love him so much and he won't trust me again._

_He won't love me again._

_He is leaving. Forever. And I shall wither away... die..._

And then, he heard Eskel.

"Listen, Julian. I loved you as my brother. And now...", there was a pained sigh, "And now, I don't know anymore. If you ... if what you say is true - that you truly did not betray Geralt, betray us - then some day, the truth will out. Truth never remains hidden forever. It finds a way out, always. And justice will be served."

"But Eskel ... I can't ... if he leaves, I am going to die ... he is my everything, Eskel ..."

"No, Julian. You won't die. If your love for him has been true, if you truly have been loyal to him, you will be in pain, for sure, but you won't die. You will be surprised how strong and resilient an individual is capable of being when survival demands it", Eskel smiled ruefully, "And if your love for him has been steadfast, I think - no, I believe - that Destiny will see to it that you and he - you two are brought back to each other."

Jaskier looked up at Eskel as a drowning man would when offered a flimsy branch of a tree to hold on to.

"For my part, I hope you are speaking the truth, Julian. That you truly loved him - love him - love us as your family. That you remained, and will remain, loyal. I did come to care for you, did come to trust you completely. Geralt hates lies and liars above most things, and he won't be able to forgive you so easily. But...", Eskel sighed resignedly, "I hope that someday, I have my brother - my Jaskier - back with us."

Jaskier was hiccuping now, the sobs having receded, and his teary eyes staring up at Eskel.

"Eskel, brother, I don't know what the future holds for me. Destiny, so far, has been cruel, ruthless. But, may I make a request?"

"You may, Julian."

"Geralt discarded this yesterday", Jaskier's tremulous hand brought out the ring from his pocket - the ring set with a heart-shaped blue sapphire, "Breaking off our engagement. And, I understand", he said, miserably, "I understand that he is very, very angry. But, will you keep it safe with you? For me? Some day, if he comes to know that his Jaskier was innocent all along, and he wants to find me, ask him to bring this with him? Will you?"

And Eskel, his heart breaking at the sight of the disconsolate, desolate, empty-eyed prince on his knees in front of him, extended his hand and took the ring from him.

"I will."

*******************************************************************************

Jaskier the Bard was alone again.

He had looked on with cornflower-blue eyes imploring, entreating pitifully as Geralt of Rivia rode out of the stable and away from him, farther and farther until he dwindled into a black speck near the horizon, then disappeared altogether.

In another hour, the devastated, shattered human had packed up his scant belongings, shouldered his pack and his lute, and set out, his eyes listless, his benumbed mind having not the slightest notion of where to go.

He briefly contemplated going back to Aldersberg and turning himself in - Pavlov would be overjoyed to have his toy - his object of torture and abuse back within his clutches - it would be, after all, one way of hastening his own death and fulfilling Geralt's wishes.

But then, somewhere deep down, he shuddered to think of what Azazor would do to him - how he would be raped, violated, clawed at, bruised, cut, torn, bloodied when breached - all the while thinking of all the times his body had lain beneath Geralt's - safe, loved, cherished, _worshipped_. And even the most self-loathing, self-deprecating corner of his mind could not conceive of the unendurable pain of such torments, and he decided, in the end, that he could not inflict such a fate upon himself.

The bard decided to make his way towards the coast. After all, he had always wanted to see the ocean. So he followed the old road that ran alongside the River Pontar, on whose northern banks stood Rinde.

And thus it was that, in a village tavern close to the college town of Oxenfurt, he ran into an old, bearded man and a kind old woman.

"Julian!"

"Master Baylor? Jessa?"

He crashed into their arms, his body finally giving in after all those days of tireless, ceaseless walking and all those nights full of agonizing nightmares and even more painful awakenings to an empty, lonely world.

And he sobbed like a child - openly, unabashedly - as the two people who had forever seen the good, the pure in him, who had never ever given up on him, held him close, their aged but strong arms around his frail body, supporting him, comforting him, reassuring him.

They checked into an inn, and the three of them stayed up the entire night as Julian - Jaskier - poured out his heart to them, holding back nothing. His listeners were ever patient, and the hands that held onto his as his body shook repeatedly with helpless sobs and his mind reeled in pain, never once let go. And in turn, Jessa and Master Baylor told him their story - of how they had been imprisoned once the disappearance of the prince had been discovered, how, rather surprisingly, they had not been dealt the death sentence, and instead exiled from Aldersberg.

And as the sun rose the next day, with the three people sitting huddled together with sleep-deprived eyes and watching the eastern sky blush a deep, rosy crimson through the window of their room, Jaskier hoped ...

_... he hoped that perhaps, somehow, somewhere, he could begin again ..._

_... begin anew, with the two people who had persistently, unfailingly refused to abandon him._


	7. After all is said and done, I'm yours and you're mine, forevermore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 7th and last chapter up! Okay, honest confession: the way Jaskier has been portrayed in the Netflix series - it kind of makes me feel like he himself had little importance, little meaning to his existence without Geralt on the scene. And I've found that many, if not most, imagine him to remain a lovesick, touch-starved, lost human until Geralt comes back to him. But I - as someone who dealt with depression and heartbreak and fought back, who grew to become much more mature, much happier, much more full of life, and perhaps most importantly, who learned that she is complete by herself, whether she ever finds a lover or not - wanted to make my Jaskier the same. His heart broke, and he knows that romantically, he would always be Geralt's and no one else's. But he also knows that he is capable of being happy, contented, and finding peace whether Geralt walks back into his life or not. He has learned the importance of self-love, and he has chosen to remain, and become even more of, a kind, compassionate and above all, optimistic individual. He has learned to forgive both himself and Geralt, to accept that life does not always give people what they want, but rather, what they need.
> 
> PLEASE REVIEW!

The three Witchers and the sorceress struck a direct course back towards Kaer Morhen from Rinde.

On the way, they picked up Aubrey, Gwen, Hemminks and Varin of the Wolf School, Cohen of the Griffin School and Aiden and Joel of the Cat School. And a second sorceress, by the name of Triss Merigold, joined them.

In the meantime, summons were being sent out by sorcerers and sorceresses who had sided with the Witchers (which most of them had), by establishing connections with the medallions which the Witchers wore and which were capable of channeling magical energy. Witchers traveling far and wide, from all schools, from every part of the Continent, were being alerted, were being called to unite under a single banner, that of Kaer Morhen, to fight the insidious extremist radicals who were inciting false rumours and violence against them. 

The entire time that the ten Witchers and the two sorceresses needed to travel back to Kaer Morhen (the fortress being magically warded against anyone trying to reach it through a portal, and Yennefer and Triss refusing to do so anyway in order to sweep the lands they were covering in search of more Witchers to collect), Geralt of Rivia spoke not a single word.

Not to his closest brothers Eskel and Lambert, not to his friend Aiden, not to Gwen and Aubrey whom he loved as his own little siblings.

Not even to Yennefer.

And never once did he allow the slightest chink in his cold, steely exterior. Never once did that bleak, grim expression give way to the merest hint of a smile. The White Wolf sat like a rock statue atop his Roach, eyes straight ahead, jaws clenched, lips pressed in a thin line - his icy demeanour keeping everyone, including the determined and increasingly frustrated Yennefer, at arm's length.

She tried. She tried her best. She hated seeing him like this - suffering inwardly all by himself, not sharing his pain, his heartache with her. She, who was inexorably tied to his destiny, to his life. 

Because Yennefer did truly care for Geralt. Yes, she had known for some time now that this fondness, which initially both mistook as romantic love and heightened sexual desire, that made them gravitate towards each other was perhaps something else altogether. She had slowly started to realize that they were more like souls tied together by Destiny as compatriots, as confidantes, as best friends, as partners united for a common cause, but not romantic partners.

But no matter how Yennefer implored to Geralt to open up, the Wolf remained oblivious to all of them, and indeed, to the entire world (except during skirmishes they encountered on their way, and while hunting), until they set foot in Kaer Morhen.

The moment their horses were stabled next to the keep's lowest refectory, Geralt strode out without a single word to anyone and, taking three steps at a time, climbed the winding stairwell and vanished upstairs. 

Yennefer made to follow, but was stopped by Eskel.

"He needs to see Baba. Vesemir, I mean. Let him go. His heart is completely shattered. And Baba is the only one who can even _begin_ the process of mending it. I hope."

********************************************************************************

Vesemir stared distractedly out the window that now seemed like an oblong canvas of midnight blue, with glittering pinpricks of stars painted all over it.

He was leaning against the headboard of his bed, still recovering from the injuries he had sustained in the battle against the forces and the assassins sent by the zealot kings and queens.

Curled up next to Vesemir, his snowy head burrowed in the Old Wolf's lap, arms wrapped around his Baba, whole frame shaking with sobs ... lay Geralt.

Vesemir slowly, lovingly ran his fingers through his son's silvery-white tresses, while his other hand rubbed his back.

"How could he, Baba? How could ... I trusted him ... I gave myself to him ..."

The words were muffled, the choking sobs interrupting their flow. Vesemir tried to make Geralt look up at him, but the younger Witcher stubbornly refused, face still hidden in the folds of Vesemir's blanket.

"I'll be honest, Geralt", he began slowly, his voice soft and soothing, trying his best to comfort his disconsolate, heartbroken child, "He never once seemed like his heart wasn't true. He seemed genuine. He seemed someone I could trust my son's hand with."

That just made Geralt sob harder.

"I ... I so badly wanted to have him by my side ... I loved him - still love him - sooo much, Baba. I kept thinking of our wedding to come ... he ... he ... Baba ..."

The broken, pained whimpering made Vesemir frown in worry, and he pulled his son closer, making the White Wolf sit up slightly. Now, Geralt lay with his head on his Baba's shoulder, arms tightly hugging him, his whole body supported by Vesemir as he slumped, defeated.

"Geralt, please, you have to be strong, son", the Old Wolf urged, "There is a storm coming ... a war, if the portents are to be believed ... and we have to stand side by side and fight. I need you by my side, son. But I promise..."

He paused, and now, prying his feebly weeping, despondent, darling son off his chest, he made Geralt look him in the eye.

"I promise that, once this is over, once this war and those who provoked and abetted it are taken care of, I will find Julian. I will find him and wring the truth from him. I will make sure that you have your closure."

Geralt's amber eyes slowly morphed from tearful and pained to determined and hard.

"You will always have me by your side, Baba. Never doubt that."

*****************************************************************************************

It took close to three years to bring the fanatic rulers to heel. 

Three long years of arduous fighting, of forging political treaties and truces and sometimes breaking them, of sorcerers and sorceresses and mages and druids banding together and using their fullest might to subdue armies and assassins, of Witchers hacking and hewing their way through teeming, vicious, vengeful forces filled with bloodlust. Where the zealot rulers exploited their poor citizens and subjects to fund the wars, Witchers and their allies did their best to help those same villagers, to not let them become victims of the carnage, to spare as many human lives as possible, including those of soldiers who had sworn fealty to the enemies.

In the end, most of the rulers who had riled up the rebels against the Witchers were dethroned, and after severe public castigating, apologized and vowed never to repeat those mistakes again. A few, however, refused to bow down despite having their forces vanquished for good, their kingdoms all but occupied and brought under the governance of the Witchers. 

Two such kingdoms were Aldersberg and Eisenlaan.

The royal families of both these kingdoms, and their close associates, were taken prisoners and locked up in their own underground dungeons, to await trials that would almost surely culminate in executions.

The night before their trials were to begin, two hooded, cloaked figures were seen entering the palace grounds and making their way down to the dungeons, their footsteps barely heard on the stone floor, their faces concealed in shadow. Side by side, they approached the cell that held the king consort, Pavlov, of Aldersberg. 

As a key turned in the lock of that cell, the sole occupant of the cell, who sat glowering in a corner, looked up at the two new arrivals with a sneer, his cruel eyes shining with defiance, arrogance and supreme imperiousness, his stance rigid with intransigence.

"About time you let me out, you freaking mutants!"

In two strides, the bigger of the two cloaked figures crossed over to Pavlov and grabbed a fistful of his hair, pulling his head back dangerously far until the king keened in pain.

"We do the questioning and the commanding around here, you conceited, bloated bastard", snarled the assailant, his spittle flying into Pavlov's face, the edge of his steel sword pressed against the king's exposed throat and drawing blood. The king opened his mouth to retort, but then thought better of it and closed it.

"It was a nice trick you tried, Pavlov. Have to give you credit for such an _unconventional_ idea", the man spat, gold eyes full of malice and promise of vengeance, "Sending your own son to spy on us, to coax the secrets of Kaer Morhen out of us..."

"My son?", Pavlov barked a cruel, humourless laugh, "That demented, fucking, filthy whore? He crawled his way to you fucking mutants after he fled from my clutches? Oh ha ha ... you must have gelled well, didn't you? Fucking freak, that one. Weak, pathetic, deplorable, worthless. Oh I've missed fondling that soft flesh, missed whipping that pale back until it swelled with red welts! Missed pumping into that sorry whore's ..."

With a howl of rage and pain that reverberated through the cavernous underground space, the gold-eyed man raised his sword and struck, the vicious blade slicing through bones and flesh as smoothly as if they were butter, and a moment later, the severed head of the king consort of Aldersberg rolled away on the stone floor of the prison cell.

And another moment later, his slayer slid down the wall opposite the king's decapitated corpse, hood falling off his head to reveal the wealth of long silver-white tresses, face warped in pain and shock and heart-wrenching remorse, lips parted and chest panting in its attempts to draw ragged, rattled breaths, tears starting to trickle down his widened eyes.

The other figure rushed to his side, her hood too slipping off to reveal the rivulets of curly black locks and the brilliant violet eyes now brimming with tears. Letting her own sword clatter to the floor, she scooped up her stunned, stupefied, dazed best friend in her arms, holding his head and rubbing his back soothingly.

"Geralt, please, breathe! Geralt, it's alright! We will find him, and we will bring him back. This is _not_ your fault. This is all on me ... I only grazed the surface of his mind to know what lies he had told you, what secrets he kept from you. I didn't delve deeper, or I would have known the truth. I just ... I didn't wish to see. I wanted him to be the villain. I ... I was jealous of him, at that time. I let myself and you and everyone else believe he was evil, that he wanted nothing more than to hurt you. You couldn't have known the truth, please Geralt!"

The White Wolf hung onto Yennefer's embrace for dear life, his whole body wracked with guilt and pain and loss.

_I let you go._

_I hurled every cruel, ruthless, pitiless word and thought that came to my mind, at you..._

_... while you lay on the floor, begging for mercy, begging for me to understand, to trust you ..._

_I threw away the betrothal ring you gave me ..._

_I spat on your love, called you a traitor and a monster, flung you from my side ..._

_I told you that I hoped you would die ..._

And this last memory made the mighty Witcher let out a strangled, helpless sob so painful, so wretched that Yennefer let out a startled scream, worried that her friend might asphyxiate.

"Geralt! GERALT! Let's get you to Vesemir ... he will fix this, somehow, someway. Let's get you to Baba ... please, Geralt, come on. Come on, lean on me. Stand, Geralt, stand!"

******************************************************************************************

Julian Alratz was a well-loved and popular face among the teachers who ran the small school for underprivileged and refugee children in the city of Oxenfurt. And he was absolutely adored by his little students - his beaming smile, his kind words, his effusive encouragement, and of course, the homemade candies he sneaked into their hands - all serving to win their young hearts.

It turned out that the City Council of Oxenfurt was actually headed by people who cared about the commoners rather than wanting to bleed them dry. And so, alongside running a number of colleges for higher education (in one of which Julian was currently enrolled and absolutely loving it), they had also recently opened a number of residential schools, each meant to take in a small number of children from impoverished families or families fleeing war and persecution that were currently ravaging the eastern parts of the Continent.

And Julian, who spent the daytime taking classes, participating in discussions and debates and attending seminars in his college, dedicated himself to teaching and taking care of the darling little kids in one such school during the evening. Something that made sure that he came home to his Master Baylor and Jessa every night with a contented smile on his face, and went to bed tired but happy.

Eskel had been right.

He had survived. And not just that - he had learned to live. Yes, through pain and suffering and heartache and a _lot_ of struggling and grappling, sometimes coming to the brink of giving up but always being pulled back by his two closest people. Slowly, steadily, undeniably, he had veered from self-loathing and self-destruction to self-love, from the resigned, despairing, lonely human to a fighter - a downright dogged, determined, staunch, tenacious fighter who backed down from no combat and no challenge life presented him with, and who faced each and every day with a brazen smile and a bolstered heart, knowing that happiness and sorrow were but two halves of an endless cycle in time.

He had re-learned, bit by painstaking bit, that he _mattered_. That he was important and had a place in this world, in the lives of a small number of people who loved him fiercely. That he had contributions to make to the society, tasks and feats to accomplish, love to give to those whose souls were parched and thirsting for it. That he himself was one such soul - that his kindness and compassion and care and patience weren't just meant to be showered upon others, but also upon himself. That he deserved love and understanding and empathy or sympathy not just from others, but from himself too.

His heart still ached for, still loved, still missed a certain man, a certain phase. But he had learned why he had to - he must - gather every piece of his shattered heart and put them back together, each piece in its proper place, and then cement it all together with the love he received from the people around him, no matter who they were, and the love from himself. And that this heart, with its scars and its visible, jagged cracks - even though not impeccable as new - was no less deserving of affection and care.

He had slowly grown, slowly been nourished into a young man who was independent, strong, courageous, kind, loving, always willing to help and see good in others, who was never again going to doubt his own worth and his own reason for existence, who was never going to grovel at anyone's feet, who commanded respect and believed that respect went both ways, and, perhaps above all...

_... who knew with his whole heart that whether a certain, still-very-beloved, still-cherished, white-haired, amber-eyed man came back to him in this lifetime or not..._

_... Julian's life, Julian's existence was **not** incomplete without him ..._

_... that if and when this beloved man did walk back into his life, it would be to enrich it, to add to it ..._

_... but even if he did not, even if he never showed up again, his absence would not take away anything from Julian's already complete, already adequate presence in this world._

And so, Julian immersed himself in acquiring knowledge in the subjects he had always loved and always dreamed of pursuing, in learning music much more sincerely, in singing and playing and entertaining the kids at his school and his friends at home and in college, partaking in helping make the city a better place for all, joining in celebrations and social gatherings.

"Julian?", Master Baylor called, just as an exhausted but happy Julian stepped into their prim little cottage, his lute and satchel on his shoulder.

"Yes, Da?"

"There's news. Come to me after you've washed and changed, son?"

"Sure, Da", Julian headed to the kitchen, where his Ma - who was once his nurse Jessa, but whom he loved as his own mother - bustled around preparing dinner.

Some time later, the three of them gathered in their little living room cum dining space, and sat down to eat.

"Da, what were you saying earlier?", Julian tried to talk past the mouthful of steaming rice and chicken.

"Ah, yes. Um, your family - your parents and sister", the old man seemed to have some difficulty forcing out the words, "They were all executed a few days back. News reached us today."

Julian paused in his chewing, then forced himself to swallow.

"Does that mean that ... that the Witchers have won the war?"

"Seems so, yes."

"And do you have any news of ...", he trailed off, his stomach twisting in worry and anxiety for the safety of the mutants he had come to love and still loved. 

_Especially one particular Witcher ... if something has happened to him ..._

_All I have ever prayed for is that he be safe, that my brothers and Baba be safe ..._

_Oh Melitele, keep his heart! Let it remain cold and unforgiving towards me ... but let him live, Melitele ..._

_Let him be safe! Let him be happy! Let him be well, wherever he is, whomever he is with ..._

Julian was shaken out of his thoughts by a hand on his arm, and he looked into the wise, knowing eyes of Master Baylor, trying to blink back tears.

"All the news we received here mentioned a certain white-haired, fierce-golden-eyed Witcher personally beheading the royal family - the family who hurt you and tortured you so much - Julian. And his brothers and his father stood by him when the new governing body was instated in Aldersberg, son."

Julian stared at Master Baylor, heart still in his mouth.

"Breathe, son! The people you love - they are all safe. They won the war, and they avenged the abuse, the torment you endured throughout your childhood."

That night, after everyone had retired to their rooms, Julian pulled out the smallest drawer of his study-desk, and after more than two years, picked up from inside it a tiny, wood-carved box. The lid clicked open to reveal a gold ring set with a beautiful, oval-shaped, fiery orange sapphire. 

Julian stared at the priceless object for a long time, his mind wandering off to a time - a phase - long gone. 

_Yes, he was independent. He was complete by himself. He had gained knowledge and strength to become a perfectly capable, competent individual. He was even contented and happy and full of optimism and good cheer._

_But one thing he was not. And he would never be._

_And that was being ready to fall for someone else._

_His heart would always belong to one, and only one, man._

_He was ready to give and receive love in every single one of its **other** forms, to and from the people around him. To be filled with it, to bask in it, to suffuse the lives of his dear ones with the glow of it. _

_But when it came to romantic love, his heart would know no other._

Somehow, this realization had stopped making him feel lonely and empty at some point of time in these past three years. Because he had learned that not having a partner - never again being reunited with the man he loved and would forever love - neither meant nor foreboded a life of loneliness and isolation and helpless solitude. It just meant that he would have to fill his life with other kinds of love, including, and perhaps most importantly, self-love and self-care.

Yet, as his eyes fondly regarded the ring lying on his palm, somewhere deep down, his heart did ache. It did call out.

_If you ever come back, Beloved, you will find me waiting._

_If you ever choose to find me again, know that I am still here. Still with my heart bathed in your love._

_My love for you will never lessen, never diminish._

_And I wait, ever yours, my Beloved..._

*****************************************************************************

"I have located him", the relieved words left Yennefer's mouth in a rush even as she set foot in Vesemir's room, "And I can open up a portal to get you there in no time, Geralt!"

Geralt didn't even glance up from where he sat with his head bowed, back against the wall, while Eskel and Lambert immediately perked up and chirped, "Where?!"

"Oxenfurt. Looks like he is a student in one of the colleges there. And a teacher in one of the council-run evening schools for the underprivileged."

"Wow!", Eskel smiled, thoroughly impressed, "Knew the lad won't give up without a fight. Told him so myself!"

"Geralt?", Vesemir called from where he sat on his bed, "When do you wish to leave?"

The White Wolf sighed tiredly.

"What's the point, Baba? He hates me. He won't want me back. I wounded him, broke him, crushed him. Not once did I listen to his beseeching, not once did I show him any kindness. Threw his love back in his face..."

"That's enough, Geralt!", Lambert growled, "You couldn't have known. None of us could have. We all blamed him, thought him a traitor. Both Eskel and I hurt and pushed away our dear, dear human brother, Geralt."

"And I didn't look deep enough into his mind, and instead, gave in to petty feelings of jealousy and possessiveness towards you", confessed Yennefer.

"And I could not keep enough faith in my human son to bring him back to our family when he needed us the most", finished Vesemir.

"We should all go", Eskel suggested suddenly, making even the morose and dejected-looking Geralt stare at him.

"I think that's a great idea!", laughed Lambert, clapping his hands.

"But not through a portal", asserted Vesemir solemnly, "We should make the journey to Oxenfurt on horseback, and wherever necessary, on foot. It would be good to experience ourselves at least a fraction of the pain my poor Jaskier endured while making his way to Oxenfurt, alone and forlorn."

"What are you all so damned excited about?", Geralt yelled, but what was meant to sound angry, simply sounded pained and despairing, "What if he has moved on, huh? It's been three years - three fucking years! And I insulted him, hurt him, utterly smashed his heart and destroyed his love before I let go, remember? He is _supposed_ to hate me! He is _supposed_ to have moved on, given his heart to someone else - someone much more deserving than a monster like ..."

"Geralt!", Vesemir's low but menacing growl cut off the self-deprecating babbling instantly.

"Get ready, all of you. We leave tomorrow", the Old Wolf declared, effectively dismissing his children from his room, "And Geralt, if I hear your self-loathing, self-demeaning whines again, you will wish that Yen had made good on that threat she made once of turning you into a toad."

*******************************************************************************

The city of Oxenfurt was generally a place inhabited by scholars, intellectuals, artists and authors, mathematicians and astronomers, chemists and alchemists. People of letters, in short. And this made the city one of those rare places where mutants such as Witchers and sorceresses were not only safe from fearful glances, deriding comments and insults, and violence carried out by ignorant, bigoted mobs, but they were actually made to feel welcome.

As a result, despite the raging wars, the city had been frequented by many Witchers and many magic-wielders, and when four Witchers and a sorceress showed up one morning, the city did not erupt in gossips and whispered rumours and fabricated stories about their arrival and the intention of their arrival.

They checked into the biggest, busiest inn at the very heart of the city, and gave the general impression of being barely acquainted with each other, each having rented their own room and making sure to be only briefly seen conversing in public. They were not yet sure how Julian would receive the news of their arrival should it reach his ears, and hence, they kept a rather low profile as they went about their business.

"So", began Yennefer, after the five of them had surreptitiously gathered in Vesemir's room, which was the largest and the coziest out of all of theirs, "I think it is a bad idea to show up at his college. He may not like to be caught by surprise in front of his friends and peers."

"Yes, I agree", said Lambert, "What about his home?"

"An old man and an old woman live there. Probably the tutor and the nurse that Tanya mentioned when Geralt interrogated her before ... you know ...", she didn't bother finishing the sentence.

"What time does he get back home most days? Do you know, daughter?", asked Vesemir.

"Sometime around eight'o'clock, Baba."

"Geralt, son, why don't we go to their home around seven'o'clock or so, make ourselves acquainted with his tutor and nurse, and get the general impression of how things stand?", Vesemir asked Geralt.

The White Wolf was slipping back into the darkness of doubt, of fear of being rejected, fear of being shoved away, fear of being told to fuck off, after everything he had done ...

"Hey!", Yen patted Geralt's arm, jerking him back to reality.

"What? Oh, yeah. Yeah, let's do that. I mean ... that's an option as good as any other ..."

*************************************************************************************

That day in college, Julian had listened with rapt attention to one of his friends mentioning that Witchers and sorcerers were being seen traveling out of their strongholds and secluded schools and fortresses again, now that the war was over. That even as they spoke, some of them had taken up residence for a few days in Oxenfurt itself.

For some reason, Julian's heart had soared. 

Julian had learned at Master Baylor's feet how nursing grudges and bitterness towards someone else in his heart was likely to cause far more damage to himself than to the person the feelings were intended for.

Not to mention that no matter what happened, Julian - Jaskier - would pray for nothing but safety, security, well-being, good health and happiness when it came to Geralt, or any of the Witchers of Wolf School.

And thus, even though resentment and anger had sometimes managed to meander their way into his bleeding heart, they had never been able to take root, take any lasting hold of his heart. And deep down, he had tried to place himself in Geralt's shoes and see things from that perspective. The unsettling - even frightening - news of Kaer Morhen getting stormed by armies and assassins and Vesemir - his Baba - getting injured, discovering who Jaskier truly was and being terribly hurt by the lies he had been told by the bard despite fully trusting him, too many rock-solid evidences pointing towards Julian being a spy, and the story being presented to Geralt by none other than Yennefer - no wonder the White Wolf had lost it that night. Had lashed out like a wounded tiger. 

And Julian had seen how the Wolf himself had been on the verge of tears every time he had uttered something tremendously hurtful, unkind, distressing to his bard.

He knew that if, by some miracle, Geralt were to seek him out again, Julian's heart would weep from all the pain it had endured, and there would be talking to do - lots and lots of it - and closures to be worked on, feelings to be expressed openly and honestly, vulnerability to be admitted, hugs and caresses to be traded to gradually erase past hurts and grievances. He knew the process of healing and moving forward together would be slow, long and gradual, with lots of hurdles to surmount, lots of patience to be demanded, lots of love to exchange. That is, if it ever began at all in the first place. If Geralt ever chose to return.

When his feet reached the doorsteps of his cottage, he was still lost in the wanderings of his wayward mind.

Which is why he nearly cried out in alarm as he almost ran into the figure that stood waiting right on the steps leading up to the door from the garden path.

"What the...!"

"Hello, Julian!"

As impeccably dressed as ever, in a lacy satin gown of the palest pink, with pearls adorning the bodice and the hem, and her silk-supple hair gathered up in an elegant bun at the back of her head, held together in a black net studded with glittering moonstones... 

Lips parted in a smile that could only be called - friendly?! Almost genial?!

And violet eyes staring straight into his own cornflower-blue ones, and holding nothing but - affection?! Joy?! Relief?!

Before Julian's petrified, befuddled brain could so much as prompt him to squeak, the sorceress - who had at one point of time intimidated the living daylights out of him - stepped forward and enveloped him in a hug.

_This is a dangerous dream conjured by a frenzied, feverish, delirious mind._

_One from which I really need to awake. Now!_

_And then ask Ma to give me some medications for said fever._

"It's not", said Yennefer, yet to let go of the stupefied Julian in her arms, "It's not a dream."

And that had him coming out of his stunned silence like an angry, bristling kitty. 

"Don't you effing dare read my mind again, you ... you ..."

Yennefer squeezed his arms in a reassuring gesture even as he stuttered in outrage. "I won't, ever again. I swear."

Julian narrowed his eyes at her. "You are up to something, sorceress."

"I promise it is nothing bad, Julian. Would you please come for a short walk with me? I really do need to speak with you."

_This was getting weirder and weirder._

_Was he getting ensnared in some sort of trap?_

_Why the fuck did she look so friendly? So warm? Wasn't she supposed to hate him? Regard him with contempt and condescension?_

_Yet, it felt like something had shifted within her..._

"Please. I promise I won't hurt you, ever again. I won't ever do to you what I did in Rinde."

And with that, her face twisted in pain, and ... and remorse?

She extended her hand towards the sightly gawking Julian, her eyes pleading. Slowly, he took the proffered hand, his mind an addled mess, his expression utterly clueless. They started walking slowly, through the small patch of garden that surrounded the house.

"I know I have no right to ask you for forgiveness for the way I hurt you. For the way I was responsible for a massive misunderstanding, whose consequences have proved devastating for not one but two lives. I can only hope that the damage I have helped wrought is reversible, and I am willing to give my everything to restore things to how they used to be prior to my intervention in Rinde ..."

"Sorceress", Julian interrupted, his tone brooking no argument and his expression firm and unrelenting, "Speak in clear terms. Don't weave an imbroglio with your words."

Yennefer stopped dead in her tracks and looked up at her companion in wonder, and to Julian's utter incredulity, with admiration in her violet orbs.

"You have changed, Julian. You have grown! You are no longer the man we left behind in Rinde! You are holding your ground, holding your head high, chin up, taking no nonsense from anyone. I love that, brother!"

"I am your _what_?"

"Brother", she said simply, "Like Eskel and Lambert and Aiden and Gwen and the others."

Julian's mouth fell open slightly, and he blinked like a confused owl, but she did not elaborate on it.

"Right, where was I? Yes, I was saying that ... I apologize, Julian. I know you may choose to never forgive me, but I truly am sorry. So sorry. I should have looked deeper into your mind, your soul, and gleaned the truth. But I only brushed the surface of your mind."

The young man was unable to say anything ... suddenly he felt tears prick in his eyes and a lump starting to clog his throat.

The sorceress took his two hands in her own, squeezing them, her eyes again imploring him to understand - an emotion Julian felt was so incongruous with how he had come to view this supremely powerful magical being.

"Julian, I was so wrong. When Geralt and I met, we both felt a strange pull towards each other, and we both gave in, thinking that this might be how Destiny was telling us we were each other's true love. But trust me, all those days in Shaerrawedd, Geralt never once became physically intimate with me. He never once forgot his promises to you. Yes, we grew close emotionally, and I ... I even pined for him. But he never wavered from his loyalty towards you - please believe me! He too wondered if he was meant to be with me all along, but his heart was true. Always true, always yours, Julian."

An inadvertent sob escaped Julian's lips as he lowered his face in an attempt to hide the tears now running down his cheeks, but the sorceress help his face up again, her knuckles underneath his chin.

"I hated you at that time. Felt like you were the one obstacle between me and my man. I wanted to _believe_ you were evil, that you meant Geralt nothing but harm. I was, and still am, so protective of him. And then, when I unraveled your secret - your true identity - that you were keeping from Geralt, I pounced on that and..."

Her own eyes were shining with what looked suspiciously like unshed tears to Julian, though the notion of Yennefer of Vengerberg shedding tears for any reason whatsoever seemed so utterly ludicrous and absurd to him that his mind wanted to promptly dismiss the thought.

And yet, somewhere deep down, he knew she was truly contrite. And that she was hurting, too.

"Over these last three years, I have fought alongside Geralt. He is my best friend, Julian, and I know he will always be. I know I am his closest confidante and compatriot as well. But we both came to realize, quite quickly actually, that romantic partners we were not, and we are never meant to be. And his heart ... his heart always knew - no matter how much his mind debated and dithered after we first met - that it belongs to you. And only you."

"No Yennefer, he hates me."

Five simple words, and an ocean of grief and loss and pain behind them.

Yennefer firmly placed her palms on Julian's cheeks and forced him to look at her.

"Listen to me very carefully, brother. **He loves you.** Never ever stopped loving you. Yes, for the longest time, he believed you a traitor, a betrayer, a renegade. He was distraught and disconsolate and heartbroken, and especially angry on behalf of his family that he felt you had betrayed. He was **not** happy all this time, Julian. He was hurting no less. **He too was in pain.** And the moment he found out the truth ... you weren't there, brother, but I was. You should have seen the raw anguish, the devastation on that dear face. He needs you, and he has missed you dearly, brother."

"What do you want me to say, Yen?", Julian broke down, unable to take it anymore, "I begged him to not leave, I begged him to trust me. To stay. Do you know how much pain I was in? Do you?"

"I do, or at least, I can guess, my sweet brother", Yennefer pulled the now sobbing human into her arms, and surprisingly enough, he relaxed into her embrace, sagging against her, "Both of you have suffered too much. Known too much of pain. And I don't think I can ever forgive myself for that. All I ask for is a chance to make things right, or at least try to. Will you give me that chance?"

*****************************************************************************

When Yennefer pushed open the door to the little cottage and Julian almost timidly followed her inside, eyes still slightly red and smarting from the brief spell of crying, he knew he ought to have been prepared, and yet his heart nearly leaped to his mouth as his eyes surveyed the scene in front of him.

Vesemir sat on one end of the couch, his expression tranquil, a small smile playing on his lips, deep in conversation with Master Baylor. Lambert stood behind the couch, arms crossed and leaning against the wall, also engaged in that conversation. Eskel was helping Jessa with bringing the tea cups, the milk pots, the sugar and the biscuit jars from the kitchen and arranging them on the coffee table, the usual kindly smile plastered to his handsome face.

And at the corner of the room farthest from the door, sitting on the floor, half concealed in shadow, trying to make himself as diminutive and inconspicuous and nearly invisible as possible, knees drawn to his chest, head bowed, arms hugging himself...

... sat Geralt.

"Jaskier!", Vesemir turned his head with an endearing smile at Julian, and stood up with his arms held out, "Son!"

Lambert and Eskel jerked straight, their eyes wide with something akin to fear and guilt and silent entreating as they watched Julian, looking like they were holding their breaths.

And Geralt ... oh Geralt!

The poor dear's head snapped up, his huge gold eyes landing on the face of his Beloved and almost immediately dipping down. And then his head bowed down impossibly more, almost disappearing behind his knees, and his entire frame shrank, almost as if he was attempting to dwindle into an unobtrusive speck of dust on the floor.

And in those few seconds for which Geralt looked up at him, Julian saw...

_Such deep, gut-wrenching emotions flicker across that dear face..._

_Pain. Acute, excruciating, debilitating pain._

_Loss. Devastating, heartbreaking loss._

_Loneliness. Deep, aching, all-consuming loneliness._

_Longing. Heartrending, helpless longing. Screaming at Julian, calling to him, wanting him to know how much he had been missed._

_Fear. Fear of being rejected, driven out, turned away._

_Hope. Just a wee sparkle of it. Hope that perhaps Julian would forgive him. May be, just may be, he would come back._

_Hope that may be, just may be, Julian would want Geralt again._

"One moment, Baba", Julian said in a surprisingly matter-of-fact tone to Vesemir, and before either he or Eskel or Lambert could say anything more, the human crossed the length of the room in three strides, and plopping himself down unceremoniously to the floor, scooped up Geralt in his arms.

And without warning, without a moment's notice, the White Wolf of Rivia burst into tears.

******************************************************************************************

"Geralt, come on honey, let's get you to my room", Jaskier (for he really did like that name much more than the name he had been given at birth) murmured to the uncontrollably sobbing Wolf, helping him up to his feet, knowing that the proud Witcher would much rather be alone with him in such a vulnerable state than be in the company of the others, "This way, come on sweetie, this way."

A few minutes later, Geralt was sagging against him as Jaskier leaned back against his bed's headboard, the Witcher's face hidden in his chest, his whole body shaking with fresh torrents of hacking sobs, while Jaskier's shirtfront steadily became drenched in tears.

The bard had his arms tightly wrapped around the Wolf to anchor him, rubbing his back, running fingers through his white hair, trying everything to comfort his Beloved. 

"Jasky... Jasky..."

"I know, boo, I know. It's okay. It's alright. You know the whole truth now. And Yen had me all caught up on everything that has happened these three years. So I know how much pain you were - are - in. I know."

"I shouldn't have ... I couldn't ... I still love..."

"Okay, okay, breathe now, baby, breathe", Jaskier's hands tried to soothe the Witcher, rubbing circles on his back, as he planted a kiss on top of that snowy head (which just made Geralt cry harder), "Breathe, Geralt! Baby, breathe!"

"And cry", whispered Jaskier, "It's okay to cry. Cry as much as you want into my chest, Beloved. Let every last bit of the toxin leach out of your system - the pain, the grief, the guilt, the shame - let all of it drain away with the tears. Free up your mind. Let go of the burden. Lighten your heart, my darling."

And so the White Wolf stayed in his Beloved's arms, and time trickled by without either of them noticing, as the anguish of loss and separation and hurting one another poured forth in rivulets of tears, Jaskier's own mingling with Geralt's. They held on to each other like lifelines, not speaking, not needing to speak - just crying and bathing in each other's presence, in each other's embraces. 

More than an hour later, when Geralt was absolutely spent, he hiccuped himself to a sitting position, eyes still downcast and unable to meet Jaskier's.

"I don't deserve your forgiveness, Beloved..."

"Please let _me_ be the judge of that, my sweetheart."

And that had Geralt finally raise his tear-streaked face to Jaskier's eyes. "At least don't make it so easy?"

"Oh, we have a lot of talking, a lot of mending, a lot of healing to do together, trust me", Jaskier smiled indulgently, cupping his darling Witcher's face in his hands, "It will be a long journey back to where we left off, but it will all be worth it, my boo. And we will be supporting each other, loving each other, caring for each other every step of the way. We won't be alone in it."

Geralt just stared at Jaskier's face like a man lost amidst the scorching sands of a vast desert who had been offered up an entire oasis without even having to beg for it.

Slowly, quietly, he brought out a tiny box from the inside of his trouser pocket. "Eskel gave this to me", his voice was small, as he opened the lid to reveal the ring that sat inside it, heart-shaped blue sapphire glimmering in the soft candlelight. 

"Ah yes", and with a smile, Jaskier leaned to one side of the bed and extending his hand, pulled open the drawer and brought out a similar box. "And I have this one, all ready", he said, showing Geralt the ring studded with the oval-shaped orange sapphire.

Geralt's breath hitched.

"Shall we, Beloved?"

And once again - one more time, which neither Jaskier nor Geralt had dared hope would ever come again - the rings were slid onto the little fingers of their left hands.

_Geralt sporting Jaskier's colour, and Jaskier sporting Geralt's._

_Just as Destiny had always ordained it to be._

And when finally - _finally_ \- the two lovers, once again betrothed to each other, walked hand in hand out into the dining hall, where six rather tense people sat waiting anxiously, Lambert bluntly said,

"Baba, can we get these two idiots married off right away? No waiting period anymore between betrothal and wedding, please? I have had enough of their tomfoolery ... just make sure these two dolts stick to each other like glue for the rest of their existence and be done with it already!"


End file.
